by Nora Roberts
He came back with a couple of navy blue towels. “You’ve done some beautiful work in here.”
“Yeah?” He glanced around as he scrubbed his hair with a towel. “Good start anyway.”
“Really good start,” she said as she wandered into the living room. His furniture needed help. Slipcovers, or better yet replacement. And he had perhaps the biggest television she’d ever seen dominating one wall. But the walls were a slightly deeper shade of that green, the woodwork gorgeous. And the little fireplace had been fronted in creamy granite, framed in more of that honey oak with a wide, chunky mantel topping it.
“God, that’s gorgeous, Bo. Seriously.” She crossed to the fireplace, ran her fingers over the mantel. There was dust, but beneath it was silky wood. “Oh, look what you’ve done around the window!”
It was flanked with shelves, mirroring the wood and beaded accents on the trim. “It’s just the sort of detail a room this size needs. Brings it in without losing the sense of space. Makes it cozy.”
“Thanks. I’m thinking about fronting them with glass—pebbled maybe. Haven’t decided. But I’m doing that with the built-ins I’m making for the dining room, so I may just leave these open.”
He was proud of his work, but her enthusiastic response gave him an extra boost. “Kitchen’s done, if you want to see.”
“I do.” She glanced back at the fireplace as she walked out. “Can you do something like that in my place?”
“I can do anything you want.”
She passed him back the towel. “We’ll have to talk about your rates.”
“I’ll give you an infatuation discount.”
“I’d be a fool to say no.” She poked her head in other rooms on the way. “I’m nosy. What’s this going to be? Like a TV room?”
“That’s the plan. Room enough for a good-sized entertainment unit. I’m working on a design.”
“Using the monster in your living room as a measuring tool.”
He smiled easily. “You’re going to watch, why not watch?”
“I’m thinking of using this space in my house for a library. Lots of shelves, warm colors, maybe putting in one of those little gas fireplaces. Big cushy chairs.”
“That wall’d be best for the fireplace.” He gestured with a lift of his chin. “Could do a nice window seat over there.”
“A window seat.” She considered him. “Just how infatuated are you?”
“I was going to have a beer and the ball game. Then I saw you.”
“Pretty infatuated.” She strolled out, glanced into the half bath. New tiles, she noted, new fixtures. Then the dining room, where she found major construction in progress. “It’s a lot of work.”
“I like the work. Even when I have to shoehorn it in between active clients. Business is good, so this place is taking me longer than the last one. But I like it here, so that’s a point. Then there’s you.”
“Hmmm.” She left that without comment and wandered into the kitchen. “Holy crap, Bo. This is amazing. It’s like a magazine.”
“Kitchens are the hub.” He opened the laundry room door, tossed the towels inside. “Major selling point. It’s generally where I start the rehab.”
He’d done the floors in big slate-colored tiles, echoed that on the counters and used white-washed cabinets. Some were fronted with leaded glass. He’d put in a bar for casual seating, added in a box window to bring in the backyard. Wide windowsills were stone and called out for pretty pots of plants or herbs.
“You went high-end on the appliances. I know my appliances. I’d love to have one of these built-in grills.”
“I can get you a good price. Contractor’s rate.”
“I love the lighting. This mission style is perfect.”
He flipped on a switch and made her eyes gleam. Light beamed down from under the top cabinets.
“Nice touch. Now I have kitchen envy. This display cabinet’s great. Why don’t you have anything in it?”
“Didn’t have anything. Guess I do now. Some of my grandmother’s stuff.” He opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of white wine. “She left me everything. Well, she made a bequest to the church, but the rest she left to me. The house. Everything.”
“It makes you sad,” she stated softly.
“Some, I guess. Grateful.” For a moment, he just held the wine bottle, leaned back against the refrigerator. “The house is free and clear, and once I get over the guilt, I’ll sell it.”
“She wouldn’t want you to feel guilty. She didn’t expect you to move in. It’s just a house.”
He got glasses, poured the wine. “I’m coming around to that. Doesn’t need much work. I’ve kept it up for her. I’ve started clearing stuff out. The boxes in the other room.” He handed her a glass. “Mostly photographs, some of her jewelry, and . . .”
“Things that matter.”
“Yeah, things that matter. She had a couple of pictures I drew her when I was a kid. You know, box houses with triangle roofs. Big round yellow sun. W birds flying around.”
“She loved you.”
“I know. My father’s decided to be hurt and insulted because she didn’t leave him anything. He’s seen her maybe twice in the last five, six years, and he’s playing the grieving son.” He stopped himself, shook his head. “Sorry.”
“Families are complicated. I should know. She made her choices, Bo. It was her right.”
“I get that.” But he rubbed his fingers hard over the middle of his forehead. “I could give him a cut when I sell the house, but she wouldn’t like it. So I won’t. She did leave my uncle and my cousin a few odds and ends. I guess she made her statement. Anyway.” He shook it off. “Hungry? Why don’t I fix you dinner?”
“You cook?”
“A little turn of the leaf I made a long time ago—and by happy coincidence, I learned that having a guy cook is like foreplay to a woman.”
“You’re not wrong. What’s on the menu?”
He smiled. “I’ll figure that out. While I am, why don’t you tell me why you look tired?”
“Do I?” She sipped while he opened the freezer. “I guess I am. Or was. Hard day. Want me to bore you with it?”
“I do.” He found a couple of chicken breasts, put them in the microwave to defrost, then opened a vegetable drawer.
“My partner and I worked this case. Flop hotel in south Baltimore. Single victim, female. Her head and most of her torso were . . . and I’ve just realized this is not really pre-dinner conversation.”
“It’s okay. I’ve got a strong stomach.”
“Let’s say she was badly burned, in an attempt to hide the fact that she’d been beaten to death. He didn’t do a good job of it, either. It’s all right there, like flashing lights.”
She ran him through it, watching as he whipped something up in a small stainless steel bowl, dumped it over the chicken.
“It’s hard, what you do. Seeing what you see.”
“You have to walk a line between objectivity and compassion. It gets shaky. I guess it shook a little for me with De Wanna. All her cosmetics piled on the back of the toilet, the meal she was trying to put together. She loved the son of a bitch, and he’s so annoyed she’s pregnant again—like it was all her fault—he smashes her face with a frying pan, then beats her to death with it, panics, sets her on fire. Sets her hair on fire. It takes a special kind of callousness to do that.”
Bo poured her more wine. “But you got him?”
“Wasn’t hard. He’s dumb as a brick. Used her credit card—or tried to. Made us, though. Smelled cop the minute we walked into this sluggy little bar. Ran out the back, tipped my partner over with a garbage can. I’m in pursuit, catching up with him, climbing over a fence, rain’s pouring. I’m not even thinking then, just doing. He doesn’t know the city, traps himself in a blind alley. Turns around and pulls a knife.”
“Jesus, Reena.”
She shook her head. “I’ve got a gun. A gun, for God’s sake. What does he think, I’ll go ee
k and run away?” But a part of her had wanted to. “I’ve had to draw my weapon before, a few times before, but it was almost an afterthought. This . . . my hands were shaking, and I was so cold. Inside, not from the rain. Because I knew I might have to use it. I’ve never had to fire my weapon. I was cold because I might have to fire. I was cold because I knew I could. Maybe wanted to, because . . . I still had the picture of what he’d done to her in my head. I was scared. It’s the first time I’ve really been scared on the job. I guess it caught me by surprise. So . . .”
She took a breath, and a drink. “Your offer of wine and dinner was well timed. I’m better off with company than alone. And it’s not the sort of thing I like to talk about with my family. It worries them.”
It worried him, too, but that didn’t seem like the right response. Instead he gave her another that came to his mind. “Regular people don’t—can’t—understand what you deal with. Not just the stress, which must be through the roof, not even the personal danger. But the emotion of it, I guess. What you see, what you have to do about it, and how that sits inside you.”
“There are reasons I got into this type of work. What happened to De Wanna Johnson’s one of them. And I feel better, so thanks for letting me go on about it. Writing a report doesn’t have the same cathartic benefit. Want a hand with dinner?”
“No, I got it. It loses the seductive value if I ask you to peel potatoes.”
“You seducing me, Bo?”
“Working up to it.”
“How long does it generally take for you to get through the working-up-to-it stage?”
“Not usually this long. Especially if you count back the full thirteen years.”
“Then I’d say it’s been long enough.” She set her glass down, rose. “You’re going to want that chicken to marinate awhile anyway,” she added as she crossed to him.
“I feel like I should say something clever right now. But my mind’s blank.” He put his hands on her hips, sliding them slowly up her body as he drew her in.
His head dipped, then paused with his lips a whisper from hers, just to catch her quick breath of anticipation. His eyes stayed open, watching hers, as he changed the angle, grazed his teeth over her bottom lip.
Then slowly sank in.
She smelled of the rain, tasted of wine. Her hands gripped his shoulders, then combed up through his hair and fisted there as that tight, angular body fit to his. He moved without thinking, half turning so her back was braced against the counter, locking her there while his mouth did a long, thorough exploration of hers.
Her teeth clamped lightly over his tongue, shooting his blood from hot to fevered. And the sound she made was something between a laugh and a moan.
His vision blurred.
Her hands weren’t quite steady when she tugged his shirt out of his waistband. “You’re good at this,” she managed.
“Right back at you. Reena.” His mouth raced to her throat, branded its way up to her lips again. “I want to . . . let’s go upstairs.”
Everything inside her was open and aching and ready. With her hands under his shirt, she dug her fingers into hard muscle. She wanted that body on hers, the brawn of it, the heat of it, the need of it. “I like your floor. Let’s see how it holds up.”
He thought he heard his heart knocking, hard, insistent bangs. When he pulled back far enough to yank her jacket down her arms, he recognized the knocking on his front door. “Oh, for the sake of the tiny baby Jesus.”
She closed her teeth over his jaw. “Expecting someone?”
“No. Maybe they’ll . . .” But the knocking only increased. “Damn it. Listen, don’t move. Breathe only if you have to, but don’t move.” He gripped her shoulders. “Oh God, look at you. I could just . . . Just wait here, right here because I can just slip right back into position after I go kill whoever’s at the door. It’ll only take a minute for me to murder them.”
“I have a gun,” she offered.
His laugh was a little pained. “Thanks, but I can do it with my bare hands. Don’t disappear, don’t change your mind. Don’t do anything.”
She grinned after him, then patted a hand on her heart. He was good at it, she mused. In fact, he was exceptional. A man who could kiss like that . . . and she already knew he was good with his hands . . . had the potential to be an amazing lover. Still, now that she’d had a minute to clear the fire out of her brain, maybe going upstairs was a better idea.
She shook back her hair, then wandered out of the kitchen to see if he’d sent the interruption on its way.
And found him in the doorway, holding a pretty little redhead. The woman—the redhead Reena had seen at the funeral—had her head on his shoulder, and her own body shook with sobs.
“I feel so bad, Bo. I didn’t think I’d feel this bad. I don’t know what to do.”
“It’s okay. Come on. Let me close the door.”
“It’s stupid. I’m stupid, but I can’t help it.”
“You’re not stupid. Come on, Mandy, just . . .” He trailed off when he spotted Reena, and she watched his face go through several emotions. Surprise, embarrassment, apology, denial. “Ah . . . ah . . . Well.”
Tears continued to stream down Mandy’s face as she stared at Reena, then pulled back from Bo. Flushed as red as her hair. “Oh Jesus, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was here. God, what an idiot. I’m sorry. I’m going.”
“It’s all right. I was just leaving.”
“No. God. I am.” Mandy rubbed both hands over her wet cheeks. “Pretend I wasn’t here. The dignified part of me wasn’t.”
“Don’t worry about it. Really. I was just looking at the house. I live next door. Reena Hale.”
“Mandy—Reena?” she repeated. “I know you.” She sniffled, brushed at more tears. “I mean, not really. I went to Maryland the same time you did. I was Josh Bolton’s downstairs neighbor. I met you once for a minute before he . . .” Her voice cracked, her face melted in misery. “Oh God, I’m a mess.”
“You knew Josh?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” She pressed her hand over her mouth and rocked herself. “Small, horrible world, isn’t it?”
“Sometimes. I really have to go.”
“Mandy, give me a minute,” Bo began, but Reena was already shaking her head and walking out the door.
“No, that’s fine. We’ll catch up later.” She made the quick dash through the incessant drizzle.
“Bo, I’m so sorry. I should’ve called. I should’ve drunk myself into a stupor. Go after her.”
But he knew the mood was shattered. And he’d seen Reena’s face when Josh Bolton’s name was mentioned. More than surprise, he thought, there’d been grief. “It’s okay. Let’s sit down.”
Maybe it was the day or the wine or the rain, but Reena filled the tub, poured yet another glass of wine, then slid into the water. And wept. Her heart, her head, her gut ached with the tears, and when they were done, finally done, she was numb and light-headed.
She dried off, pulled on thin flannel pants and a T-shirt before going downstairs to fix herself a solitary meal.
Her kitchen seemed dull and lifeless. Lonely, she thought—she felt squeezed empty with loneliness.
The wine and the rain, and probably the crying jag, had a headache simmering. Rather than face actual cooking, she pulled out one of her mother’s care packages and heated up some minestrone.
But she left it warming on the stove, and poured more wine.
Funny how pain could reach across the years and still claw right through you. She rarely thought of Josh, and when she did, it was usually with more of a pang than this stabbing shock. Sorrow for the boy who’d never become fully a man, and a kind of bittersweet regret.
Defenses were down, that’s what she told herself as she stared down into the pot of soup. Hard day, and now the loneliness was so acute it was just another knife in the heart.
She glanced over at the knock on her back door and let out a sigh. She knew it would be B
o before she opened the door.
His hair was wet again.
“Listen, can I come in a minute? I just want to explain—”
She turned away, leaving the door open. “You don’t need to explain.”
“Well, yeah, because it looked like . . . And it wasn’t. It’s not. Mandy and I are friends, and we don’t—Well, we used to, but that was a long time ago. Reena . . . could you just look at me?”
She knew he’d see the damage the weeping had left on her face. Tears weren’t something she was ashamed of, but at the moment she was impatient with them, with herself. With him.
“I’ve had a bad day.” But she turned to face him. “Just a lot of things piling up. I can deal. Seems to me your friend’s having a worse day.”
