Needing Nita

CHAPTER ONE

“So, what’s the story?”

Nita Reynolds glanced up at her law partner, Brad Knopfler, who stood framed in her
doorway, without really seeing him.

Brain tumor. A couple of bad headaches, and now they said she had a tumor in her head. Just
like her father. God, she’d only had that MRI because her mother had hounded her within an
inch of her life to ask for it. Neuro-imaging was not the medical community’s usual first
response to a complaint of migraine with aura, and she’d felt like a major hypochondriac even
asking her doctor about it.

“Nita?”

She blinked. Shit. “Sorry, Brad, what was that?”

Taking her question as an invitation, he crossed the plush carpet to settle in one of the leather
armchairs opposite her desk. “Your meeting with the Crown Prosecutor this morning,” he
prompted, loosening his tie and lounging back in the chair. “How’d it go?”

Better than the visit with my doctor right after that.

“Good.” When that came out as little more than a croak, she cleared her throat. “It was good. I
talked her down from indictable to summary offence.”

Brad lifted an eyebrow. “Good job. That’ll save your guy four or five years, if he’s
convicted.”

“Yeah, and there’s a pretty good chance he will be.”

“Hey, are you okay, Nita? You look a little ... I don’t know. Wiped.”

Wiped? Try dying.

She bit back on a bubble of laughter that threatened to erupt. Gawd, if she laughed now, she’d
start crying.

“You know what? I am tired.” She closed the file she’d been staring at for the past half hour.
“I think I’m gonna play hooky and go home.”

“Nita, Nita, Nita.” Brad shook his head sadly. “It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. That hardly
qualifies. Hooky is when you call the office whilst tangled with your lover who is nibbling you
in places that make your voice go husky, thereby lending you some credibility when you plead
swine flu or bubonic plague or something.”

At his words, a mental image sprang to life. Specifically, the image of Detective Craig
Walker’s hulking length sprawled on her five hundred dollar Eygptian cotton sheets, and her
own body sprawled atop his….

Suddenly, her heart beat faster. And not at the mental image alone. She’d conjured it too often
in these past few months for it to have that dramatic an effect. No, her heart beat faster at the
idea taking root in her mind. The mind that could be lost to her all too soon, like her father’s was
after his first surgery. But it wasn’t lost yet. She still had full mental capacity, full motor
function. Full control of her life, at least for the immediate future.

Time to put it to good use.

She stood, smiling for the first time since leaving Dr. Woodbridge’s office. “You know what?
You’re right again, Brad. You’re absolutely right.”

Grabbing her purse, she strode out.

***

Detective Craig Walker massaged his forehead as he listened to his aunt’s friend’s mother rant
about the graffiti artist who’d been tagging abandoned buildings in her neighborhood in the
decaying west end of St. Cloud.

“I’ll ask patrol to look into that, ma’am,” he interjected, when it appeared she was winding
down. Unfortunately, that only served to rev her up, as she interpreted his response to mean the
police department did not concern itself with vandalism. He switched the receiver to the other ear
and slouched back in his chair, resigned to listening a while longer.

Frankly, he’d driven through that neighborhood the other day and thought the graffiti was an
improvement. And for once, he could actually approve the messages, which were clearly the
work of environmental activists rather than the usual gang-related crap. Vegan environmental
activists, judging by the two-buildings-wide 'Stop feeding cows; start feeding people' message.
But his favorite was the one with the beautiful, amazingly detailed rendition of the earth with the
caption beneath 'Earth. Pass it on'.

“I understand your concern, Mrs. Brewer,” he said when she paused again for breath. “But
I’m assigned to Major Crimes, and my Sergeant would kick my butt if I took time away for
something like this. I’ve had two serious new cases just today, and dozens more getting colder by
the minute. The best I can do in the circumstances is pass your concerns along to patrol, who will
look into it. If Aunt Gena herself called me, I’d have to give her the same answer.”

That wasn’t strictly true. He couldn’t think of much he wouldn’t do for Aunt Gena, if she
asked him. But the rest of it was true, including the grinding workload. And with the fiscal belt
tightening undertaken by the newly elected mayor, the manpower additions they’d been counting
on weren’t likely to materialize.

After a few more assurances, he managed to get Mrs. Brewer off the line. A quick call to
patrol/community policing, and the whole thing was someone else’s problem.

Too bad he couldn’t sluff off his personal irritations so easily. Ray Morgan, a colleague in
Major Crimes, was trying to set him up with his wife’s friend from the newspaper. Or rather,
Ray’s wife Grace was trying to set him up. What was so hard to grasp about “not interested in a
relationship”? These people who were so damned happy were a pain in the ass.

And on the other side of the spectrum, he kept having to stave off Denis Dallaire. Newly
divorced, Dallaire was hitting the bars again, and couldn’t seem to grasp that every single guy
didn’t want to be out there chasing skirts every freaking night. The thing was, Craig had caught
his share. Now, it just seemed more trouble than it was worth, which depressed the hell out of
him. He was only 34, for chrissakes. A healthy 34-year-old man should want to be out there,
shouldn’t he? It was almost enough to make him take Denis up on the challenge.

But nah. Too much effort. Not so much in the chase, but in the extrication afterward.

And yeah, the vague emptiness it left him with. Not that he’d ever admit to it. At least not
anywhere within earshot of Ray Morgan. There’d be no stopping Grace’s matchmaking.

He’d just gotten back into the flow of his arrest report when his phone rang again. “Walker.”

“Detective, it’s Nita Reynolds.”

He’d straightened in his chair even before she identified herself. He’d have recognized that
voice anywhere. Confident, controlled, self-contained, but with an underlying hint of heat that
was all the sexier for its subtlety. Much the way she looked.

“Ah, Ms Reynolds,” he said, pushing down the jumbled mixture of feelings she always
managed to evoke. “Let me guess. You’re representing the enterprising Edward Rayburn, who
set out to find a buyer for his girlfriend’s daughter while said child’s meth-addicted mother sits
out a jail term.”

“I think you mean he stands accused of trying to sell the child,” she corrected. “But no, I
don’t represent him. I was calling –”

“Of course! Gordon Bohner. I wondered who he’d find to represent him.” The thought of
what Bohner had done to his own mother to extract enough money for his next fix hardened his
voice. “You’re mother must be proud of you, Nita.”

She snorted. “I don’t think she ever got over her disappointment when I left Highpriced &
Pompous to do Legal Aid work. And I’m not even going to ask what Mr. Bohner did.”

He grinned at her use of the nickname for the multi-province mega-firm Hightower Ponder.
“Don’t you mean you won’t ask what Mr. Bohner stands accused of doing?”

She made a sound, but he couldn’t tell whether it was an exasperated sigh or a stifled laugh.
“God, I must be crazy,” she said.

This time, he definitely detected laughter in her voice. And in that moment, he knew she
wasn’t calling about anyone’s case. The realization sent a bolt straight to his groin. He glanced
up at fellow detective Sean Casey, who sat two desks over in the detective’s bullpen. Casey
appeared to be engrossed in reading a file, but Craig angled his chair away from his colleague.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “You had the good judgment to call me, after all.”

“Good judgment?” She laughed again. “That remains to be seen.”

He waited. Pointedly. He could have waded in there, helped her out, but dammit, why should
he? He’d done the asking last time. Two times, actually. The first time, he got a polite turndown.
He would never have asked again, except all the signals were still there, in flashing neon.
When she turned him down the second time, she’d made it clear she didn’t date cops. Period.

“I was wondering if you’d like to go to dinner with me tonight. My treat. I thought maybe
Soloman’s.”

Soloman’s. Pricey, but they had the best steak and seafood in town. They also had a relaxed
enough atmosphere and dress code to attract regular Joes like him once in a while. And more
significantly, Soloman’s was a two, maybe three block walk from Nita Reynolds’ downtown
condo apartment. The thought sent another jolt below the belt. Settle down, boy.

“To be completely clear, are we talking about a date here?”

“Yes.” One word, but it managed to sound strangled.

He leaned back his chair, feeling in control. A strange sensation indeed when it came to this
woman. And probably short-lived, so he should enjoy it.

Apparently, he must have enjoyed it a little too long, because her voice was a little testier
when she spoke again. “What? Have I stunned you into silence? Shocked you with my
forwardness, maybe?”

“Nah, I was just searching for the weather report from hell. I’m guessing it must have frozen
over down there.”

“Very funny.”

“What about your no cops rule?”

“Some rules are meant to be broken, Detective. I know you of all people would subscribe to
that notion.”

“Given how often I land myself in hot water with the brass, you mean?”

She made no reply.

“No comment?” he prodded.

“Sorry,” she said politely, “I was letting the record speak.”

He laughed. “Okay, it’s a date. I’ll meet you there.” After a few beats of silence, he added,
“What time?”

“Seven?”

“Perfect.”

“One last thing, Detective….”

“What’s that?”

“Come prepared.”

He heard her disconnect, but still he sat there with the receiver in hand, her words echoing in
his mind. Come prepared. The dial tone kicked in, and he hung up.

Jesus. He was sitting in the middle of the bullpen with a hard on. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so
in control.