So Sweet A Madness (Silhouette Reissued) Read online

  “So Cool on the Outside, So Warm Underneath…”

  Adam threaded his fingers through the mass of her ash-blond hair.

  This time there was no hesitation as their lips met in a searing kiss, a kiss that left its brand on them both. Long, strong fingers gently but firmly held her face up to his, covering the pulse at the base of her throat, tracing the vee of her blouse where it plunged downward toward the swell of her breasts.

  Oh, dear God, Taylor thought desperately, this was crazy! She didn’t want to want him. Her life was nicely planned and under control. There was simply no place in it for the disruptive influence of this man—or any man for that matter. But even as the thought crawled through her mind, she felt the velvety insistence of his tongue robbing her of both breath and conviction in the same instant….

  So Sweet A Madness

  by

  Suzanne Simms

  Copyright © 1983 by Suzanne Guntrum, All rights reserved.

  Dedicated to those very special friends—

  Jayne, Barbara, and Elaine

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  About the Author

  1

  Whistling a nameless tune under his breath, Detective Lieutenant Adam McCord opened the door of Knoxville’s Civic Auditorium and stepped inside. Quickly downing the last of his coffee, he tossed the empty styrofoam cup in a trash container by the entrance. Although he was officially off duty for the rest of the night he’d decided to take a look at the place on his way home.

  He stood there a moment at the back of the large hall, one hand running through his thick, brown hair in an absent-minded gesture, the other casually resting on his hip. The jacket of his dark suit strained against his broad shoulders, his typically male stance clearly revealing the muscular physique beneath the material.

  Halfway down the aisle he stopped dead in his tracks. In quick succession his gaze swept the auditorium, the well-lighted stage with its row upon row of empty chairs, and finally the solitary figure of a woman seated center stage.

  From this distance the woman appeared to be fairly tall and on the slender side, her features concealed by a drape of long, blond hair as she leaned over the music stand in front of her. He hadn’t expected to find anyone but the night watchman here at this hour. He certainly never expected to find a woman all alone. As he opened his mouth to call out to her, she positioned her hands and gracefully drew the bow across the cello cradled between her legs.

  Adam McCord would be the first to admit that his knowledge of classical music was limited. In fact, he thought most of it was dull, even tedious; his personal taste inclined more to the country-western ballad or the popular rock style of Neil Diamond. But as the plaintive, almost human voice of the cello carried from one end of the auditorium to the other he found himself captivated by the sound.

  It didn’t take an expert to recognize that the cellist was good, very good, whoever she was. The man stood there, watching and listening, caught up in the strangely intimate spell cast by the deserted concert hall, the vision of a woman with shimmering, ash-blond hair, and the truly incredible music coming from the solitary string instrument. It was a moment he knew would be indelibly stamped on his memory.

  When the final note faded away the woman slowly raised her head and peered into the shadows. She seemed to sense that she was no longer alone. From his vantage point Adam McCord could see she was younger than he had originally thought, certainly something less than his own thirty-two years. Her features were boldly drawn, striking in their appearance, possessing perhaps more character than actual beauty.

  “That was beautiful,” he commented, walking down the aisle toward her, his own deep baritone amplified by the near-perfect acoustics of the place.

  He stopped directly in front of the stage and looked up at her. Her face was clearly visible now. He could see that her eyes were an extraordinary shade of gray, smoke-colored with blue-green rims around the irises. There was an alabaster cast to her complexion that gave her skin a translucent quality. Amidst the ivory smoothness of her face the cheekbones were high and lightly tinged with color, the nose straight and slightly dramatic, the mouth sensuously full above the curve of her chin.

  Her back never once touched the chair behind it, adding a fullness to her breasts and a certain regality to her posture. He could almost imagine the hundreds of times she had been told as a child to “sit up straight.” After all, a lady simply did not slouch.

  On closer inspection, he saw she was fully as slender as he had first thought, but not as tall. She could be no more than five feet four inches at most. It was his business to know these things and Lieutenant Adam McCord was very good at his business.

  But it was her hands that fascinated him. The nails were buffed and necessarily clipped close, the fingers long and agile, graceful even in their slightest movement. They were, in truth, the hands of an artist.

  She looked at him for a minute or two without speaking, as though taking her own measure of the man who had seemingly emerged out of nowhere. Apparently, he passed whatever test she was silently subjecting him to for a tentative smile appeared on her face.

  “You like Debussy then,” she said in a low, rich alto, nodding her head as she spoke.

  “Debussy?” His brows drew together.

  “Claude Debussy, the composer of the sonata I was practicing,” she went on to explain, a genuinely puzzled expression on her face, as if it hadn’t occurred to her that he could possibly be unfamiliar with the piece of music she’d been playing.

  “Oh—that Debussy!” he mocked lightly.

  The woman’s attitude became perceptibly more cautious. “Are you looking for someone in particular?” she asked, fingering the sheets of music in front of her in an agitated fashion.

  “No—I’m not looking for anyone in particular. At least not tonight.” Adam could tell that his unintentionally vague reply did little to reassure her that he meant no harm. “I’m Lieutenant McCord of the Knoxville Police Department, Investigations Division.” He took his I.D. from the breast pocket of his suit and held it out for her inspection.

  “You’re a policeman?” Her gray eyes widened in surprise.

  “Yes, I am,” he drawled, trying not to show his amusement It wasn’t the first time his profession had elicited such a reaction. “I wanted to take a preliminary look at the auditorium before the concert next week. We’re expecting the British ambassador to attend.”

  “Then you’re officially involved in providing police protection for the concert,” she said, her brows drawn in a thoughtful frown.

  His nod was succinctly professional. “I’ll be working in conjunction with federal authorities, of course. I assume you’re a member of the Knoxville Symphony Orchestra, Miss—”

  “Jameson. Taylor Jameson. And, yes, I’m a violoncellist with the Symphony, Lieutenant.” He thought he heard her sniff indignantly.

  “You’re very good, too, from what I just heard,” he remarked, returning the I.D. to his breast pocket.

  She turned a beautifully innocent gaze on him. “Why, thank you, Lieutenant.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “But isn’t it a little late for you to be out safeguarding our fair city?”

  His broad shoulders rose in an expressive shrug. “You know what they say, Miss Jameson—a policeman’s work is never done.”

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know about that, Lieutenant,” she said loftily. “I’ve never met
a policeman before.”

  “The name is Adam McCord,” he told her, his voice deep and his words deliberately spaced, “and I have never met a cello player before.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” she mumbled.

  His gaze never faltered. “I apologize if I interrupted your practice.”

  Taylor made an airy little gesture with her hand, dismissing both the man and his apology in the process. “Oh, you didn’t interrupt anything. It’s time I was leaving anyway.”

  That much, at least, was true. It was time she was leaving. Good Lord, her watch said nearly eleven o’clock! The other members of the string quartet had gone home over an hour ago. She’d meant to stay only long enough to run through the Debussy sonata and Piston’s Trio. Somehow she had lost track of the time. And she still had that stack of papers in her briefcase to correct!

  Quickly getting to her feet, she began to pack the bow and cello away in their carrying case. As she did, Taylor noticed that her hands were trembling. She hated to admit it, but the man’s unexpected appearance had shaken her. She supposed she should be thankful he’d turned out to be a policeman, even if he was a rather ignorant one. The absolute nerve of the man calling her a cello player!

  “May I help you carry that to your car, Miss Jameson?” With a well-executed leap he was up on the stage and attempting to relieve her of the cumbersome carrying case.

  “Thank you, but no.” She politely but firmly put him in his place, refusing to relinquish her hold on it. “I’ve managed well enough without your help for fifteen years, Lieutenant McCord. Besides,” she said sweetly, “I wouldn’t dream of troubling you with a little thing like a cello when you must have official duties that require your attention elsewhere.”

  “It’s no trouble,” he persisted. “After all, I am a public servant here to aid and defend the citizens of Knoxville.” When that line of reasoning seemed destined to fail, he tried a different tactic. “Consider it a return on your investment then.” Taylor raised her brows in a questioning arch. “Your tax dollars pay my salary, Miss Jameson.” Then he smiled, a smile that transformed what she had thought of as rather ordinary features into something quite extraordinary.

  Squelching a strong desire to tell him exactly what he could do with his offer of help, she grudgingly accepted, “Well, when you put it that way …” Taylor watched as the carrying case was neatly taken from her grasp. “I can see you’re the type who insists on helping little old ladies cross the street whether they want to or not,” she said, disgruntled.

  “I’ve been known to on occasion.” He smiled and again she felt the impact. “But I prefer to come to the rescue of young women with shapely legs, long, blond hair and arresting gray eyes,” he finished, flicking his gaze from her thighs to her face.

  “And I’ve always liked a man in uniform,” she purred softly, determined to give tit for tat.

  “But I don’t wear a uniform.” The detective frowned, rubbing his jaw.

  “Yes—I know,” she said dryly, turning to gather up her music. She tucked it under her arm and looked up at him. “I’m ready if you are, Lieutenant.”

  “After you, Miss Jameson,” he insisted with what sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. She was beginning to wonder if anything could burst Lieutenant Adam McCord’s bubble!

  As she led the way down the steps at the far end of the stage, Taylor found herself annoyingly aware of the man. Damn him, he was managing the heavy violoncello as if it were a toy! And to think of all the times she’d struggled with its unwieldy size simply to get it in and out of her car. No easy task for a woman barely five feet four inches tall and one hundred and ten pounds.

  Of course, if she were honest with herself—and honesty was one thing Taylor insisted on—she had to admit that it was hardly his fault he was bigger and stronger than she. It was just so darned frustrating at times. Not that she would change a moment of the past fifteen years; she wouldn’t. The cello had been a major part of her life for too long now. In fact, she scarcely thought of it as separate from herself.

  Perhaps it was the same for this man and the gun he no doubt carried with him at all times. She hadn’t thought of it in quite that way before, but she supposed it was true. A policeman might well consider his gun a natural extension of himself. The thought sent a chill down her spine. The violoncello was an instrument of beauty, the gun, one of destruction. And therein lay the real difference between her world and that of the man walking beside her.

  “Do you carry a gun?” The words came from Taylor almost unconsciously.

  He seemed surprised by the question. “I haven’t heard it called a gun in a long time, but, yes, I do carry one.”

  Taylor had thought she would be repelled; instead she found herself fascinated with the idea that this man could be dangerous. This was a glimpse into a world she’d never even imagined, much less seen.

  “Do you like being a policeman?” she asked as they walked up the center aisle of the auditorium toward the door.

  Lieutenant McCord merely smiled and shrugged. “I don’t think like is quite the right word. I believe in what I’m doing. At least most of the time. You see, being a cop is kind of a tradition in my family.”

  “A tradition?” She interrupted him quietly.

  “Yes. My father was a policeman and his father before him. I’ve more or less carried on the tradition, although I was the first member of my family to graduate from college.”

  Taylor was genuinely interested now. “And where was that?”

  “Back in Pittsburgh,” he answered, pushing the door open and allowing her to precede him into the warm September night.

  “I played Pittsburgh once,” she said. “I’ll always remember getting on the airplane for that trip. They actually strapped my cello into the seat beside mine. The minute the cabin personnel saw me and my cello, I could almost feel their hostility. I felt guilty for having it on board, even though I’d had to pay half fare for it.” She shook her head as if to dislodge the memory. “So, you’re from Pittsburgh.”

  “Yep, I was not only born and raised there, but spent the first thirty years of my life in the city.” His voice trailed off into a nostalgic silence.

  Taylor turned to look at him. “How did you end up in Knoxville then?”

  He gave her a guarded answer. “I came through on a trip to the Great Smoky Mountains one time. I’d been wanting a change of scenery anyway and discovered I really liked Knoxville. I’ve been here almost two years now.” She had the strangest feeling the story had been whitewashed for her benefit, but she could hardly call the bluff of a total stranger. “You don’t sound like a native yourself,” Adam speculated.

  “I’m originally from St. Louis, but I’ve worked and lived in Knoxville for the past five years.” She stopped under a streetlight long enough to get her keys from her handbag. “My car is over there.” She indicated the only other vehicle in the parking lot besides his.

  “I would never have guessed,” he teased, walking straight for the late-model station wagon. “Kind of an odd choice for a single woman, isn’t it?”

  “Not when she has to haul a rather good-sized cello with her wherever she goes,” Taylor replied in a dry voice, unlocking the tailgate.

  “Well, they say necessity is the mother of invention,” he drawled, stowing the carrying case in the back. “There was a woman in our old neighborhood in Pittsburgh who bought a station wagon just so she could haul her dogs around in it.”

  “Haul her dogs around?” she heard herself echo.

  “She claimed they loved riding in a car. Since she had almost a dozen animals of every size and description, she figured a station wagon was the only answer. It was a damned funny sight, I’ll tell you, to see Mrs. McCollough drive down the street with a carload of dogs hanging their noses out of every available window.” His warm laughter seemed to scatter the night shadows hovering over the dark parking lot.

  Taylor was surprised to hear her own laughter join his. “I’
ll admit I’ve gotten a few funny looks myself,” she bantered, closing the rear door of the car.

  The man seemed to be digging around in the pocket of his suit coat for something. She couldn’t make it out in the dim light. “Would you like a piece of bubble gum?” he finally asked, extending his hand palm up.

  “Bubble gum?” She burst out laughing, then broke off when she realized he was perfectly serious.

  “I’ve been trying to quit smoking,” he confessed with a sheepish expression on his face. “I figure it’s almost impossible to smoke and chew bubble gum at the same time.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t care for any,” Taylor politely refused.

  “Ah, c’mon, I bet it’s been years since you had a piece of bubble gum.” Adam unwrapped a piece and tossed it into his mouth. “So, who’s going to see you being a little less than dignified out here at this time of night?” he cajoled, inadvertently hitting the nail squarely on the head.

  For in many ways Taylor Jameson’s life was indeed a study in dignity. Dignity and discipline. They were the key words in her personal as well as her professional life. Always one to say and do the correct thing, she was a woman who rarely let herself go. When she did, it was only in her music.

  Yet the almost boyish dare issued by Adam McCord struck a responsive chord deeply buried beneath the layers of sophistication.

  “All right, Lieutenant,” she said, finally relenting and putting her hand out. She unwrapped the piece of gum and carefully placed half of it into her mouth.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” His voice was gritty, entirely masculine. “Now if I could only get you to drop the ‘Lieutenant’ business and call me Adam…”

  Taylor had known all along that her persistent use of his title irritated the man. Why she would want to arouse such an emotion in a perfect stranger was a mystery to her. But she had the oddest sensation they were somehow embroiled in an age-old battle without either their prior consent or approval.