And wondered if maybe there was hope after all.
* * *
Whatever dreams Tatum had of losing herself to oblivion and sleep vanished when she pried her eyes open after only five hours. She groaned, squeezed her eyes shut and tried to ignore the digital evidence that 8:00 a.m. was creeping close. “So much for sleeping in on my day off,” she grumbled into her pillow and burrowed deeper.
Instead of the blissful unconsciousness she’d hoped to drop into, dreams of an intensely erotic and squirm-inducing nature had descended, with one central, irritating law enforcement character on center stage. It wasn’t fair. Mondays were normally her catch-up-and-rejuvenate day. Her reset day. Her create-new-recipes-and-be-inspired day. Instead she was going to spend some of it telling an estrogen-spiking detective he could get bent.
She groaned, felt the faint hitch in her stomach and pounding in her head. The tequila was not going to leave her system without a very painful goodbye, it seemed. Rolling over, she stared up at the ceiling and tried to shove all thoughts, images and feelings about Detective Cruz Medina out of her cluttered, sleep-and-man-deprived mind.
She smashed a pillow over her face and wished time to rewind. Just a day or two or... Tears burned behind her shut eyes. Five weeks ago. What she wouldn’t give to take everyone back five weeks and stop her dad and uncle from leaving the office when they had.
Voices echoed in her ears. Muffled, insistent and all too familiar. She yanked the pillow clear just as her bedroom door swung open. “Mom!” Tatum sat up in bed, clutching her sheet and duvet against her pajama-clad chest. “What are you doing here?”
“Tatum.” Farrah Colton stood in the doorway, a book of fabric samples dangling from one hand. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here,” Tatum reminded her, and for a moment, the last month faded away. “Or so it says on the lease.”
“But it’s Monday. You stay at the ranch house Sunday night.” Farrah glanced over her shoulder, her stylish, shoulder-length curly brown hair brushing against the yellow fabric of her shirt. “Oh, um.” She cringed and looked more than a bit guilty. “Darn it, this was going to be a surprise.”
“Trust me, it is,” Tatum muttered as she slung back the covers. As her feet hit the floor, an identical albeit thinner face popped up behind her mother. “Aunt Fallon, not you, too.”
“Always me, too.” Fallon Colton offered a somewhat dimmer smile than her twin sister. “Why aren’t you at the ranch house?”
“I didn’t feel like driving out there last night after we closed.” Mainly because she knew she shouldn’t be driving. She dragged herself out of bed and stood there, feeling oddly like a teenager caught after curfew. “Do one of you want to tell me what’s going on? What are you doing here?”
“Oh, well, it’s meant to be a—”
“Surprise, yeah, got that. I need coffee.” And about ten aspirin. Then she might be able to function with the flood of information streaming into her head.
“Put on a pot, would you, sweetheart?” her mother called. “We’ll be quick in here so you can take a shower.”
Tatum stopped halfway down the hall, mouth open, question poised, but she shook her head, left them to whatever they were going to do in her bedroom, and headed into the kitchen.
It was the kitchen that had sold her on the space, even before she’d fully decided she needed a place in town while she worked. The loft-like setting, the hardwood floors, the beautiful picture windows overlooking the neighborhood, that was all nice.
But it was the six-burner gas range, the smooth gold-and-black marble countertops, the bay window filled with pots of fresh herbs, and the dual wall ovens with warming and proving drawers that made the place irresistible.
Contrary to how most women thought, the way to her heart was definitely through an electrical appliance. She loved her ranch house out in Livingston, had from the moment she’d first seen the house on sprawling land that acted as a retreat as well as a home. But it was too easy to bring the pressures of work there. This one-bedroom condo, only a ten-minute drive from True, was the perfect solution. Although at the moment she was seriously regretting handing out keys to her family.
As her mother suggested, she set an entire pot to brew rather than her cup-at-a-time pod and began rummaging through the refrigerator for the makings of an omelet.
“I’ve never understood how you do that,” her mother said a few minutes later when she joined her in the kitchen.
“What? Cook?”
“Ha ha.”
Tatum couldn’t help teasing her mom. Farrah Colton was many things: a warm, caring and sometimes overattentive mother, a brilliant woman with a successful and expanding interior design business. And she’d been a happy, devoted, if not challenging wife. But Farrah had never mastered the kitchen. Or what came out of it.
Tatum set aside chopped onion, peppers and mushroom, and popped open the carton of eggs. “Are you two hungry?”
Her mother shrugged, and then, after glancing over her shoulder, nodded. “If you cook for her she’ll eat. And I meant I never understand how you can cook all night, every night, and still want to do it on your day off.”
“Because it makes me happy.” And that, Tatum thought when she glanced up at her mother, was all the answer Farrah needed. She set a pan on the stove, dropped in a mother-gasping amount of butter and set the burner to low. “So when are you going to spring it on me? This surprise you two have cooked up,” she added when Farrah looked purposely confused.
“We are redecorating your condo.” It was her aunt who answered as she joined them, setting down her own pile of fabric swatches and wallpaper books. “We need a project to get us back into a creative space, and this was on the top of our list.”
“Oh.” Tatum frowned. “Is it really that bad?” To be honest, she hadn’t paid much attention. It had what she needed: a bed, a bathroom and a kitchen. The beige walls and brown curtains had been in place when she moved in a little over two years ago. Sure, the muted colors were a bit boring, but... “Never mind,” she said when her aunt gaped at her. “I see it now. It is.”
“You don’t mind, then?” her mother asked.
Even if she did, she wasn’t going to turn them away. For the past few weeks she’d watched her mother and aunt struggle daily with getting through the endless hours of grief as they were thrust into widowhood. Tatum’s grandmother had been instrumental in helping her daughters put one foot in front of the other. Even after her stroke last year, Abigail Jones was a commanding enough presence the family looked to in times of turmoil.
Losing both her sons-in-law had taken its toll on her as well, but she led by example, and it seemed, considering her mother and aunt were currently standing in Tatum’s condo looking as clear-eyed and determined as she’d seen in weeks, that example was to persevere. Just as every Colton would.
“As long as you leave my kitchen alone, the rest of the place is yours,” Tatum told them. “Have at it. But you know the rules.”
“Don’t worry, we learned our lesson when you were sixteen,” Aunt Fallon said. “No orange—”
“No flowery froufrou—” Tatum’s mother chimed in.
“And no frogs,” Aunt Fallon finished for her twin. “Although I still don’t get the no-frogs thing.”
“Blame your son for that one.” Tatum shuddered, remembering when Fallon’s youngest boy, Jones, had left a rather slimy toad in Tatum’s sleeping bag during one notorious backyard campout. “Not that any of you particularly cared,” she chided good-naturedly. “The fact that Daddy fell into the pool because he was laughing...” She stopped, a wave of grief so large, so suffocating, overwhelming her she felt sick. “I’m sorry.” She shook her head and turned away, having to press a hand against her chest to remind herself to breathe.
“Tatum.” Her mother’s hand came to rest on her shoulder, turned her around so sh
e could cup her face in her palms. “I know it’s hard. I know you miss him. Miss them. I do, too.” The grief was there, reflected in her mother’s deep green eyes. And it broke Tatum’s heart. “Some days it’s almost impossible. But we have to go on, don’t we? It’s what he would have wanted.”
“I miss him so much.” Tatum’s voice broke as she stared down at the sizzling butter. “He should be here. Teasing me about what color you’re going to paint my walls.”
“Or leaving a stuffed frog on your bed,” Farrah said with a laugh.
Tatum choked on her own chuckle, wiped the tears from her cheek. “What a housewarming present that was. Oh, Mom.” She glanced to Aunt Fallon, who was dealing with tears of her own.
“There’s to be no more of this, Tatum Colton.” Her mother’s hold on her tightened. “We remember with joy and gratitude and leave the sorrow and grief for the night. And in the morning, we start again. You know what he always said. We do what’s right, and we do what’s good. Even when it feels impossible.”
An image of Cruz Medina floated into her mind: an image of a determined, sure-footed detective who had asked for her cooperation. Cooperation she now realized she would have to give him. On one condition.
She’d do what was right.
But she would also protect what was hers.
It was, after all, the Colton way.
CHAPTER 4
There were few places that brought Cruz Medina any sense of peace, especially on a Monday. And by peace he meant someplace that provided enough noise and distraction he could stick his earphones in, kick back and attempt to sort through the mess that was his investigation into the Nacio drug cartel.
Feet up on his desk, the mind-numbing tones of classic rock blasting in his ears, he leaned back and closed his eyes, mentally programming his respite to end in ten, nine, eight...
His chair tipped back and Cruz kicked out, flailing as he struggled to right himself. When he pitched forward and braced himself on his desk, he spun his chair and glared up at the interloper. “What the what, Cunningham?” He ignored the ego-checking chuckles coming from his fellow detectives.
Sheryl Cunningham, all five feet eight inches of her, stood, arms crossed over her chest, obsidian eyes glinting. She was not only stunning in her designer fuchsia suit that complemented her black skin, she was also glowing for two as she neared her delivery date. “You sicced your little sister on me, Medina.”
“Ah.” Cruz choked back a laugh. Mostly because he didn’t feel like dying today. Sheryl arched a brow, clearly waiting for a response. “Problem with Inez?”
“The only problem is now I know there’s two of you.” Sheryl grabbed an empty office chair and wheeled it over, sat down and let out what Cruz could only imagine was a sigh of relief. “Someone should have warned me you had a Mini-Me. Why send her to me? What did I ever do to you?”
“Well, I didn’t do that.” He pointed at her very pregnant belly and earned a hearty snort. “I wanted to make sure she had what she needed for the protest. You don’t let anything slip through the cracks. I trusted you with her.”
“Well, hell.” Sheryl sagged a bit. “That’s all right then, I guess. And I have to admit, the idea of a protest march against that creepy drug company will make my day brighter. I’m on her list now, aren’t I?”
“I want her to know who she can trust,” Cruz told his former flame. A flame that had flared quick and bright and left them as friends. “She’s prelaw and looking to save the world.”
“It’s the Medina family motto, isn’t it?” Sheryl’s face softened. “How’s your mom?”
“Lamenting the fact I’m not settled down and giving her grandchildren.”
“We’re all lamenting that,” Sheryl teased.
“What brings you down here?” Cruz popped out his earphones and tossed them onto his desk. “You could have reamed me over the phone about Inez.”
“I needed an excuse to take a walk. Kid’s coming up on overdue and I want her out. Doctor said physical activity would help, and seeing as I’m not feeling particularly sexy these days—”
“Understood.” He held up his hands in the universal male TMI surrender gesture.
“Yeah, well, I also have that information you requested.” She handed him the manila envelope she had in her hand. “Permit checks on that restaurant, True. Ran you off copies of everything on file. Most recent one was from a little over a month ago.”
“Oh? What for?” He slipped the papers out, skimmed them.
“Restaurant’s expansion into catering. Wouldn’t be surprised if a food truck’s next. That place sounds mighty tasty. You been?”
“I was there last night, actually,” Cruz admitted. The name on the permits, building, liquor license, catering, everything had Tatum’s signature. “Good calamari.”
“Huh.” Sheryl looked impressed. “Guess you got some taste after all.”
“Thanks. Sorry if Inez gave you a bad time.”
“Nah.” Sheryl waved off his concern. “Gave me something to rag you about, though. Seems like a good kid. Definitely a cross-her-t’s-and-dot-her-i’s kinda girl. You find yourself needing someone to have dinner with at True, you let me know. It’s on my and Luce’s list of must tries.”
“Before or after the baby?”
“I wouldn’t say no to before.” A wistful expression crossed her face. “Do they take waddlers?”
“Save it for after.” Cruz tried to sound nonchalant. He didn’t want people he cared about anywhere near that place until he knew it was safe. “It’ll be worth it, I promise.”
“Uh-huh.” Sheryl’s brow went back up. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone it’s under investigation.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“Sheryl, you’re early.” Lieutenant Lucille Graves came out of her office, joined them, gave her wife a quick kiss and Sheryl’s belly a quick rub. “I thought we said noon.”
Cruz looked at his watch, then back at his boss. “It is noon, LT.”
“Smart answer for everything,” Graves said with a smirk. His commanding officer had a constant if not bewildering sense of humor. She also had ten years, a good twenty pounds and about fifty IQ points on him. “You get what you wanted from Tatum Colton?”
“Waiting to hear.” Cruz had been avoiding his LT most of the morning. He liked to think he’d been persuasive, but he wouldn’t put it past Tatum to tell him to get lost just to see where it got her. He wasn’t sure himself, considering he didn’t have many other ideas at the moment. His cell phone rang, and after a glance at the screen, Cruz had to wonder if his luck had just changed. “Hang on, LT.” He held up a finger, took the call. “Ms. Colton.”
“I think—” Tatum’s voice floated over the phone and had him sitting up straighter in his chair “—given the fact we’ll be working together, you’d best call me Tatum.”
“All right, Tatum.” He grinned, glancing back at his boss and her wife. Luce and Sheryl both rolled their eyes, as if lamenting the fact another female had fallen under his spell. “I take that to mean we should get together and discuss some things?”
“You take it correctly. Since the restaurant’s closed today, why don’t you come by my place and we can work out the details here.” She rattled off an address. “Anytime after... Mom! Get off that chair! It’s not... Darn it.”
“You live with your mother?”
“Heaven forbid,” Tatum said in a tone Cruz completely understood. “She and my aunt are doing some redecorating for me. It’s keeping them busy.”
Cruz winced. He’d almost forgotten about her father and uncle.
“Anyway, how about you come by after three. They should be gone by then. I hope. Please let them be gone...”
“Three it is.”
“Oh, and you’ll need to do some shopping beforehand. You have a pen handy?”
By the time he hung up, he found Sheryl and his LT peering over his shoulder at the most unusual shopping list he’d ever written.
“Wonder what you two will do with all that olive oil,” Sheryl teased.
“Let’s go. Where do you want to go for lunch?” Luce Graves asked Sheryl as they left the squad room. “I’m thinking pizza.”
“Really?” Sheryl winked back at Cruz before they turned the corner. “I have a craving for squid.”
* * *
It took twenty minutes, a care package of fresh-baked sourdough bread for both her mother and her aunt, along with a promise to be out of the condo as of ten tomorrow morning, to get them out the door.
She was cutting it close. It was quarter to three, and she did not want to become family gossip by allowing her mother to see her with a man in her condo. That was one distraction Tatum most definitely did not want to use on her mom.
If her instinct was right—and it usually was, thank goodness—her sister January was on the verge of being engaged. The second her mother and aunt had a wedding to plan, the pressure to entertain, distract and worry would ease, and Tatum might, might start to feel her life slip back on track.
“I bet you’re getting a real laugh out of this, aren’t you, Daddy?” Tatum brushed a finger over her father’s photographed face. The picture had been taken at Tatum’s culinary academy graduation. Where her sisters had caps and gowns, Tatum had donned a chef’s jacket and worn it and her honor ribbons as proudly as a princess wore a tiara. Her father had worn his pride and love not only on his sleeve, but on his face.
The downstairs buzzer blared into the condo, making her jump. She hurried to the front door, clicked on the intercom. “Yes?”
“Medina delivery service,” came the sardonic response. He was irritated. Tatum grinned. Perfect. “Second floor. Two-oh-four.” She buzzed him in.
Something tingled inside her. Unease? Nerves? Anticipation, maybe? “Get a grip, girl,” she told herself as she tightened her ponytail and tugged down her blue T-shirt. “He’s investigating you for a crime, not taking you out on a date.” She heard the footsteps outside and opened the door before he could knock. “Hi. Come on in.”
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