Night Shift Read Free Page A

into the station. The ratings were soaring.
    “That wouldn’t do either of us any good.” Even as she let out the pent-up breath, he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Look, I’m worried about you, Cilla. All of us are.”
    It touched her, and, as always, it surprised her. “All he does is talk.” For now. Scooting her chair toward the turntables, she prepared for the next music sweep.
    “I’m not going to stand by while one of my people is harassed. I’ve called the police.”
    She sprang up out of her chair. “Damn it, Mark. I told you—”
    “You told me.” He smiled. “Let’s not go down that road again. You’re an asset to the station. And I’d like to think we are friends.”
    She sat down again, kicking out her booted feet. “Sure. Hold on.” Struggling to concentrate, she went on-air with a station plug and the intro for the upcoming song. She gestured toward the clock. “You’ve got three minutes and fifteen seconds to convince me.”
    “Very simply, Cilla, what this guy’s doing is against the law. I should never have let you talk me into letting it go this long.”
    “If we ignore him, he’ll go away.”
    “Your way isn’t working.” He dropped his hand onto her shoulder again, patiently kneading the tensed muscles there. “So we’re going to try mine. You talk to the cops or you take an unscheduled vacation.”
    Defeated, she looked up and managed a smile. “Do you push your wife around this way?”
    “All the time.” He grinned, then leaned down to press a kiss on her brow. “She loves it.”
    “Excuse me.”
    Cilla jerked back in what she knew could easily be mistaken for guilt. The two people in the doorway of the booth studied her with what she recognized as professional detachment.
    The woman looked like a fashion plate, with a flow of dark red hair cascading to her shoulders and small, elegant sapphires at her ears. Her complexion was the delicate porcelain of a true redhead. She had a small, compact body and wore a neatly tailored suit in wild shades of blue and green.
    The man beside her looked as if he’d just spent a month on the range driving cattle. His shaggy blond hair was sun-streaked and fell over the collar of a denim work shirt. His jeans were worn and low at the hips, snug over what looked to Cilla to be about three feet of leg. The hems were frayed. Lanky, he slouched in the doorway, while the woman stood at attention. His boots were scuffed, but he wore a classically cut tweed jacket over his scruffy shirt.
    He didn’t smile. Cilla found herself staring, studying his face longer than she should have. There were hollows beneath his cheekbones, and there was the faintest of clefts in his chin. His tanned skin was taut over his facial bones, and his mouth, still unsmiling, was wide and firm. His eyes, intent enough on her face to make her want to squirm, were a clear bottle green.
    “Mr. Harrison.” The woman spoke first. Cilla thought there was a flicker of amusement in her eyesas she stepped forward. “I hope we gave you enough time.”
    Cilla sent Mark a killing look. “You told me you’d called them. You didn’t tell me they were waiting outside.”
    “Now you know.” He kept a hand on her shoulder, but this time it was more restraining than comforting. “This is Ms. O’Roarke.”
    “I’m Detective Grayson. This is my partner, Detective Fletcher.”
    “Thank you again for waiting.” Mark gestured her, then her partner, in. The man lazily unfolded himself from the doorjamb.
    “Detective Fletcher and I are both used to it. We could use a bit more information.”
    “As you know, Ms. O’Roarke has been getting some disturbing calls here at the station.”
    “Cranks.” Cilla spoke up, annoyed at being talked around. “Mark shouldn’t have bothered you with it.”
    “We’re paid to be bothered.” Boyd Fletcher eased a lean hip down on the table. “So, this where you work?”
    There was just enough insolence in his eyes to raise her hackles.