Page 2 of Convincing Alex (Stanislaskis #4)

toward a chair. He was letting the rookie get his feet wet getting the vitals from Rosalie. Once they had her booked, he’d

take over himself, using charm or threats or whatever seemed most expedient to make her talk to him about her two murdered

associates.

“Okay.” He took his seat behind his battered and overcrowded desk. “You know the drill.”

She’d been staring at a young man of about twenty with a face full of bruises and a torn denim jacket. “Excuse me?”

Alex just sighed as he rolled a form onto his typewriter. “Name?”

“Oh, I’m Bess.” She held out her hand in a gesture so natural and friendly he nearly took it.

Instead, he swore softly. “Bess what?”

“McNee. And you’re?”

“In charge. Date of birth.”

“Why?”

His eyes flicked up, arrowed hers. “Why what?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Patience, never his strong suit, strained. He tapped a finger on the form. “Because I’ve got this space to fill.”

“Okay. I’m twenty-eight. A Gemini. I was born on June the first.”

Alex did the math and typed in the year. “Residence.”

Natural curiosity had her poking through the folders and papers on his desk until he slapped her hand. “You’re awfully tense,”

she commented. “Is it because you work undercover?”

Damn that smile, he thought. It was sassy, sexy, and far from stupid. That, and those sharp, intelligent green eyes, might

have fooled him. But she looked like a hooker, and she smelled like a hooker. Therefore...

“Listen, doll, here’s the way this works. I ask the questions, you answer them.”

“Tough, cynical, street-smart.”

One dark brow lifted. “Excuse me?”

“Just a quick personality check. You want my address, right?” She rattled off an address that made both of Alex’s brows raise.

“Let’s get serious.”

“Okay.” Willing to oblige, Bess folded her hands on the edge of his desk.

“Your address,” he repeated.

“I just gave it to you.”

“I know what real estate goes for in that area. Maybe you’re good.” Thoughtful, he scanned her attributes one more time. “Maybe

you’re better than you look. But you don’t make enough working the streets to pop for that kind of rent.”

Bess knew an insult when it hit her over the head. What made it worse was that she’d spent over an hour on her makeup. And

she happened to know that her body was good. Lord knew, she sweated to keep it that way by working out three days a week.

“That’s where I live, cop.” Her temper, which had a habit of flaring quickly, had her upending her enormous canvas tote onto

his desk.

Alex watched, fascinated, as she pawed through the pile of contents. There were enough cosmetics to supply a small department

store. And they weren’t the cheap kind. Six lipsticks, two compacts, several mascara sticks and pots of eye shadow. A rainbow

of eyeliner pencils. Scattered with them were two sets of keys, a snowfall of credit-card receipts, rubber bands, paper clips,

twelve pens—he counted—a few broken pencils, a steno pad, two paperback books, matches, a leather address book embossed with

the initials ELM, a stapler—he didn’t even pause to wonder why she would carry one—tissues and crumpled papers, a tiny micro-cassette recorder.

And a gun.

He whipped it out of the pile and stared at it. A water gun.

“Careful with that,” she warned as she found her overburdened wallet. “It’s full of ammonia.”

“Ammonia?”

“I used to carry Mace, but this works fine. Here.” Pleased with herself, she pushed the open wallet under his nose.

It might have been her in the picture. The hair was short and curly and chic, a deep chestnut rather than a brassy blonde.

But that nose, that chin. And those eyes. He frowned over the driver’s license. The address was right.

“You got a car?”

She shrugged and began to dump things back into her purse. “So?”

“Women in your position usually don’t.”

Because it made sense, Bess stalled. “I’ve got a license. Everybody who has a license doesn’t have to have a car, do they?”

“No.” He jerked the wallet out of her reach. “Take off the wig.”

Pouting a little, she patted it. “How come?”

He reached across the desk and yanked it off himself. She scowled at him while she ran her fingers through short, springy

red curls. “I want that back. It’s borrowed.”

“Sure.” He tossed it onto his desk before he leaned back in his squeaky chair for a fresh evaluation. If this lady was a hooker,

he was Clark Kent. “What the hell are you?”

It was time to come clean. She knew it. But something about him egged her on. “I’m just a woman trying to make a living, Officer.”

That was how Jade would handle it, Bess was sure. And since Jade was her creation, Bess was determined to do right by her.

He opened the wallet, skimmed through the bills. She was carrying around what would be for him more than two weeks’ pay. “Right.”

“Can you do that?” she demanded, more curious than annoyed. “Go through my personal property?”

“Honey, right now you are my personal property.” There were pictures in the wallet, as well. Snapshots of people, some with her, some without her. And

the lady was a card-carrying member of dozens of groups, including Greenpeace, the World Wildlife Federation, Amnesty International

and the Writers’ Guild. The last brought him back to the tape recorder. When he picked up the little toy, he noted that it

was running. “Let’s have it, Bess.”

God, he was cute. The thought passed through her head as she smiled at him. “Have what?”

“What were you doing hanging around with Rosalie and the rest of the girls?”

“My job.” When his eyes narrowed that way, Bess thought, he was downright irresistible. Impatient, a little mean, with a flash

of recklessness just barely under control.

Fabulous.

“Really.” All honesty and cheap perfume, she leaned forward. “You see, it all has to do with Jade, and how she’s having this

problem with a dual personality. By day, she’s a dedicated lawyer—a real straight arrow, you know—but by night she hits the streets. She’s blocking what happened between her and Brock, and coupled with a childhood

memory that’s begun to resurface, the strain’s been too much for her. She’s on a path of self-destruction.”

The frown in his eyes turned them nearly black. “Who the hell is Jade?”

“Jade Sullivan Carstairs. Don’t you watch daytime TV?”

His head was beginning to buzz. “No.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing. You’d probably really enjoy the Jade-Storm-Brock story line. Storm’s a cop, you see,

and he’s falling in love with Jade. Her emotional problems, and the hold Brock has on her, complicate things. Then there was

a miscarriage, and the kidnapping. Naturally, Storm has problems of his own.”

“Naturally. What’s your point?”

“Oh, sorry. I get offtrack. I write for ‘Secret Sins’ daytime drama.”

“You’re a soap-opera writer?”

“Yeah.” Unlike many in the trade, she wasn’t bothered by that particular label. “And I like to get the feel of the situations

I put my characters into. Since Jade is a special pet of mine, I—”

“Are you out of your mind?” Alex barked the question as he leaned over into her face. “Do you have any idea what you were

doing?”

She blinked, at once innocent and amused. “Research?”

He swore again, and Bess found she liked the way he raked impatient fingers through his thick black hair. “Lady, just how

far were you intending to take your research?”

“How—? Oh.” Her eyes brightened with laughter. “Well no, not quite that far.”

“What the hell would you have done if I hadn’t been a cop?”

“I’d have thought of something.” She continued to smile. He had a fascinating face—golden skin, dark eyes, wonderful bones.

And that mouth, so beautifully sculpted, even if it did tend to scowl. “It’s my job to think of things. And when I spotted

you, I thought you looked safe. What I mean is, you didn’t strike me as the kind of man who’d be interested in...” What

was a delicate way of putting it? she wondered. “Paying for pleasure.”

He was so angry he wanted to yank her up and toss her over his lap. The idea of administering a few good whacks to that cute

little butt was tremendously appealing. “And if you’d guessed wrong?”

“I didn’t,” she pointed out. “For a minute there, I was worried, but it all worked out. Better than I expected, really, because

I had a chance to ride in a—Do you still call them paddy wagons?”

He’d been so sure he’d seen everything. Heard everything. With his temper straining at the bit, he spoke through clenched

teeth. “Two hookers are dead. Two who worked that area.”

“I know,” she said quickly, as if that explained it all. “That was one of the reasons I chose it. You see, I plan to have

Jade—”

“I’m talking about you,” he interrupted in a voice that had her wincing. “You. Some bubbleheaded hack writer who thinks she

can strut around in spandex and a half a ton of makeup, then go home to her nice neighborhood and wash it all off.”

“Hack?” It was the only thing she took offense to. “Look, cop—”

“ You look. You stay out of my territory, and out of those slut clothes. Do your research out of a book.”

Her chin shot out. “I can go where I want, wearing what I want.”

“You think so?” There was a way to teach her a lesson. A perfect way. “Fine.” He rose, tugged the tote out of her hands, then

took a firm grip on her arm. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“To holding, babe. You’re under arrest, remember?”

She stumbled in the three-inch heels and squawked, “But I just explained—”

“I hear better stories before breakfast every day.”

“You’re not going to put me in a cell.” Bess was sure of it. Positive. Right up until the moment the bars closed in her face.

It took about ten minutes for the shock to wear off. When it did, Bess decided it wasn’t such a bad turn. She could be furious

with the cop—whoever he was—but she could appreciate and take advantage of the unique opportunity he’d given her. She was

in a holding cell with several other women. There was atmosphere to be absorbed, and there were interviews to be conducted.

When one of her cellmates informed her that she was entitled to a phone call, she demanded one. Pleased with the progress

she was making, she settled back on her hard cot to talk to her new acquaintances.

It was thirty minutes later when she looked up and spotted her friend and cowriter Lori Banes, standing beside a uniformed

policeman.

“Bess, you look so natural here.”

With a grin, Bess popped up as the guard unlocked the door. “It’s been great.”

“Hey!” one of her cellmates called out. “I’m telling you that Vicki’s a witch, and Jeffrey should boot her out. Amelia’s the

right woman for him.”

Bess sent back a wink. “I’ll see what I can do. Bye, girls.”

Lori didn’t consider herself long-suffering. She didn’t consider herself a prude or a stuffed shirt. And she said as much

to Bess as they walked through the corridors, up the stairs and back into the lobby area outside the squad room. “But,” she

added, pressing fingers to her tired eyes. “There’s something that puts me off about being woken up at 2:00 a.m. to come bail

you out of jail.”

“Sorry, but it’s been great. Wait until I tell you.”

“Do you know what you look like, dear?”

“Yep.” Unconcerned, Bess craned her neck. The chair behind Alex’s desk was empty. “I had no idea that so many of the working

girls watched the show. But they do work nights, mostly. Uh, excuse me...” She caught the sleeve of one of New York’s finest

as he walked by. “The officer who uses that desk?”

The cop swallowed the best part of a bite of his pastrami sandwich. “Stanislaski?”

“Whew. That’s a mouthful. Is he still around?”

“He’s in Interrogation.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“Come on, Bess, we’ve got to pick up your things.”

Bess had signed for her purse and its contents, still keeping an eye out for Alex. “Stanislaski,” she repeated to herself.

“Is that Polish, do you think?”

“How the hell do I know?” Out of patience, Lori steered her toward the door. “Let’s get out of here. The place is lousy with

criminals.”

“I know. It’s fabulous.” With a laugh, she tucked an arm around Lori’s waist. “I got ideas for the next three years. If we

decide to have Elana arrested for Reed’s murder...”

“I don’t know about having Reed murdered.”

With a sigh, Bess looked around for a cab. “Lori, we both know Jim isn’t going to sign another contract. He wants to try the

big leagues. Having his character offed is the perfect way to beef up Elana’s story line.”

“Maybe.”

Bess slyly pulled out her ace. “‘Our Lives, Our Loves’ picked up two points in the ratings last month.”

Lori only grunted.

“Word is Dr. Amanda Jamison is going to have twins.”

“Twins?” Lori shut her eyes. Soap diva Ariel Kirkwood, who played the long-suffering psychiatrist on the competing soap, was

daytime’s most popular star. “It had to be twins,” Lori muttered. “Okay, Reed dies.”

Bess allowed herself one quick victory smile, then hurried on.

“Anyway, while I was in there, I was picturing the elegant, cool Dr. Elana Warfield Stafford Carstairs in prison. Fabulous,

Lori. It’d be fabulous. I wish you’d seen the cop.”

They’d walked to the corner, and there wasn’t a cab in sight. “What cop?”

“The one who arrested me. He was incredibly sexy.”

Lori only had the energy to sigh. “Leave it to you to get busted by a sexy cop.”

“Really. All this thick black hair. His eyes were nearly black, too. Very intense. He had all those hollows and planes in

his face, and this beautiful mouth. Nice build, too. Sort of rough-and-ready. Like a boxer, maybe.”

“Don’t start, Bess.”

“I’m not. I can find a man sexy and attractive without falling in love.”

Lori shot her a look. “Since when?”

“Since the last time. I’ve sworn off, remember?” Her smile perked up when she spotted a cab heading their way. “I’m interested

in this Stanislaski for strictly professional reasons.”

“Right.” Resigned, Lori climbed in when the cab swung to the curb.

“I swear.” She lifted her right hand to add impact to the oath. “We want to get into Storm’s head more, into his background

and stuff. So I pick this cop’s brain a little.” She gave a cabbie both her address and Lori’s. “After Jade gets attacked

by the Millbrook Maniac, Storm isn’t going to be able to hold back his feelings for her. More has to come out about who and

what he is. If we do have Elana arrested for Reed’s murder, that’s going to complicate his life—you know, family loyalty versus

professional ethics. And once he confronts Brock—”

“Hey.” At a red light, the cabbie turned, peering at them from under his fading Mets cap. “You talking about ‘Secret Sins’?”

“Yeah.” Bess brightened. “Do you watch it?”

“The wife tapes it every day. You don’t look familiar.”

“We’re not on it,” Bess explained. “We write it.”

“Gotcha.” Satisfied, he punched the accelerator when the light changed. “Let me tell you what I think about that two-timing

Vicki.”

As he proceeded to do just that, Bess leaned forward, debating with him. Lori closed her eyes and tried to catch up on lost

sleep.