Courting the Cop Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Coleen Kwan
good, but I felt out of my depth. I guess I’m not edgy enough to appreciate it. I like my poetry old style.”
“I never got poetry.” Brody gave a mock shudder. “As soon as my high school English teachers started reciting poetry, my brain would go all foggy and shut down. William Blake, T.S. Eliot, Byron, it was all torture for me. Guess you had a better teacher, huh?”
A dull pain contracted her chest. Robert Lindhoff had been an excellent teacher of poetry. She’d admired the college professor she’d worked for as a research assistant. She’d put him on a pedestal and fallen hopelessly in love with him. So inevitable, so predictable. He’d wooed her with pretty quotations, but when the scales had finally fallen from her eyes, she’d seen him for the manipulative liar he was. He’d hurt her. And he’d soured poetry for her too, damn him.
To make matters worse, last night at the poetry slam, she’d spotted Robert across the crowded room. She hadn’t seen him for twelve months, had succeeded in putting him out of her thoughts, and then he had to intrude on her life again. The old pain had welled up at the sight of him looking so urbane and polished in his tweed jacket and silk scarf and horn-rimmed glasses.
He was with a girl, of course, leaning over her at the bar, murmuring something in her ear—some piece of romantic poetry, she was sure, the same lines he’d used on her. Thank God he’d left with his date soon after and hadn’t spotted Abigail staring at him or he might have believed she was still pining for him. She wasn’t. He was an egotistical jerk and nothing would change her mind about him. But she had to admit she did miss poetry.
“I’m going to make coffee,” she said, abruptly changing the subject. “Do you want some?”
“Thanks, that’d be great. It shouldn’t take too long to set up my camera.”
She slipped away, plagued by memories of her ex-lover. She got the coffee maker going before visiting the bathroom, where she cleaned her teeth and tidied up her hair. Frowning at her reflection in the mirror, she couldn’t help wondering how attractive she appeared to other men. Not men like Brody, of course. Everything about the detective shouted at her that he was the complete antithesis of what she wanted in a man. But he was a male, and one who had a lot of experience with women. How would he score her looks?
If she were to judge him solely on his appearance, she’d have to give him ten out of ten. But looks were only part of the package. In other areas, he didn’t do so well. Like poetry, for example. He didn’t need to be an enthusiast, but how could he not like Byron? She walks in beauty, like the night…
Snob , a voice snorted at the back of her head. She stuck out her tongue at her reflection and went back to the kitchen to pour out the coffee.
“Thanks,” Brody said appreciatively when she handed him one of the mugs. He sat back in her small armchair while she perched on the edge of her bed, crossing her legs ladylike and balancing her coffee mug on her knee.
A security camera rested on a tripod by the window, aimed directly across the street at Katherine O’Brien’s house. The camera was connected to a hard disk recorder.
“Is that it?” she nodded at the equipment.
“Yup. I didn’t get the okay for a full-on system, so this’ll have to do. It’s a motion-activated camera. It’ll only start recording when there’s some movement near the house.”
“What about people walking past or cars?”
“I’ve been checking that and adjusting the sensor range. Can you make sure the camera doesn’t get moved out of position? If you bump it by accident, give me a call and I’ll stop by to fix it.”
“Sure.” She nodded.
“I’ve set it up so you can still close your drapes. Just leave a crack for the lens to poke through.”
“So that’s it? You just set up this camera and leave?” She felt a vague disappointment that he’d be gone soon, and
“I never got poetry.” Brody gave a mock shudder. “As soon as my high school English teachers started reciting poetry, my brain would go all foggy and shut down. William Blake, T.S. Eliot, Byron, it was all torture for me. Guess you had a better teacher, huh?”
A dull pain contracted her chest. Robert Lindhoff had been an excellent teacher of poetry. She’d admired the college professor she’d worked for as a research assistant. She’d put him on a pedestal and fallen hopelessly in love with him. So inevitable, so predictable. He’d wooed her with pretty quotations, but when the scales had finally fallen from her eyes, she’d seen him for the manipulative liar he was. He’d hurt her. And he’d soured poetry for her too, damn him.
To make matters worse, last night at the poetry slam, she’d spotted Robert across the crowded room. She hadn’t seen him for twelve months, had succeeded in putting him out of her thoughts, and then he had to intrude on her life again. The old pain had welled up at the sight of him looking so urbane and polished in his tweed jacket and silk scarf and horn-rimmed glasses.
He was with a girl, of course, leaning over her at the bar, murmuring something in her ear—some piece of romantic poetry, she was sure, the same lines he’d used on her. Thank God he’d left with his date soon after and hadn’t spotted Abigail staring at him or he might have believed she was still pining for him. She wasn’t. He was an egotistical jerk and nothing would change her mind about him. But she had to admit she did miss poetry.
“I’m going to make coffee,” she said, abruptly changing the subject. “Do you want some?”
“Thanks, that’d be great. It shouldn’t take too long to set up my camera.”
She slipped away, plagued by memories of her ex-lover. She got the coffee maker going before visiting the bathroom, where she cleaned her teeth and tidied up her hair. Frowning at her reflection in the mirror, she couldn’t help wondering how attractive she appeared to other men. Not men like Brody, of course. Everything about the detective shouted at her that he was the complete antithesis of what she wanted in a man. But he was a male, and one who had a lot of experience with women. How would he score her looks?
If she were to judge him solely on his appearance, she’d have to give him ten out of ten. But looks were only part of the package. In other areas, he didn’t do so well. Like poetry, for example. He didn’t need to be an enthusiast, but how could he not like Byron? She walks in beauty, like the night…
Snob , a voice snorted at the back of her head. She stuck out her tongue at her reflection and went back to the kitchen to pour out the coffee.
“Thanks,” Brody said appreciatively when she handed him one of the mugs. He sat back in her small armchair while she perched on the edge of her bed, crossing her legs ladylike and balancing her coffee mug on her knee.
A security camera rested on a tripod by the window, aimed directly across the street at Katherine O’Brien’s house. The camera was connected to a hard disk recorder.
“Is that it?” she nodded at the equipment.
“Yup. I didn’t get the okay for a full-on system, so this’ll have to do. It’s a motion-activated camera. It’ll only start recording when there’s some movement near the house.”
“What about people walking past or cars?”
“I’ve been checking that and adjusting the sensor range. Can you make sure the camera doesn’t get moved out of position? If you bump it by accident, give me a call and I’ll stop by to fix it.”
“Sure.” She nodded.
“I’ve set it up so you can still close your drapes. Just leave a crack for the lens to poke through.”
“So that’s it? You just set up this camera and leave?” She felt a vague disappointment that he’d be gone soon, and