by Lynde Lakes
****
Friday night traffic was stop and go. City lights twinkled merrily around York in opposition to his dark mood as they headed for Jen’s apartment. He’d decided they would stop at her place only long enough for her to pack a bag. At a red light, York glanced over at her. She was staring straight ahead. “You okay?” he asked.
She rubbed her arms and shrank deeper into the seat. “Fine.” Her voice was soft, quivery. “Just bushed.”
“No wonder. You went through hell today, but you handled it like a pro. You didn’t freeze.” His throat tightened. If she’d been less quick acting….
Jen brushed her hair away from her face with trembling fingers. “Two little children depended on me.”
The tremors beneath the core strength of her words made him want to pull to the side of the road and take her in his arms. The memory of their fiery kiss and how she’d pressed that soft body firmly against his stopped him. He tightened his jaw, fighting the overpowering urge. Why couldn’t she have been the old-fashioned woman he was looking for? Damn, what was he going to do about the chemistry between them? Nothing, that’s what. When the traffic started moving again, he gripped the steering wheel tightly, his foot firmly on the accelerator.
“York,” Jen said as though she had just come to some decision. “I want to take care of Sniffles’s funeral. Shelly can’t afford it, and I want him to be buried with dignity.”
“What brought that on?”
She shrugged and looked down at her fingers. “It’s been drifting around the edges of my mind since I found him dead.”
Her soft voice tugged at his heart. “You really liked him, didn’t you?”
She nodded. “I can’t explain it, but he touched me. Regardless of his problems, I think deep inside he had a good heart.”
“I’ll chip in, too. I owe him that much. He risked his life plenty of times to get information for me.” He decided not to add that his snitch only did it for money. Let Jen keep her illusions about the guy.
“No way,” she said.
Her emphatic tone told him that something about his offer angered her. “Why?”
“I just need to do this alone.” She paused. “I’ve been wondering something. What was the deal with Thurlo Wade? Why were you driving that jailbird’s van?”
He sucked in his breath. “Whoa! I don’t believe this. You followed me?”
She lifted her chin, looking so damned spunky. “So what if I did?”
“Oh, I get it. You were checking me out.”
Jen locked gazes with him, her eyes glinting bright sparks. “If you were a woman meeting a strange guy, what would you do?”
“Point taken. How long did you have me under surveillance?”
“Long enough to get your license number and find out where you live.”
His neck prickled. Damn. He should have seen her. He couldn’t afford to slip up like that.
“So what’s the deal with Wade?” she asked.
“Although it’s definitely none of your business, I don’t mind telling you. I used to date Thurlo’s sister. Rosie needed the van to take her grandmother to chemo treatments. Thurlo asked me to help her out for old times’ sake, but I paid the fees and got the van out of impound more for Grandma Wade than for either of them. The old woman has had a rough life.”
“Oh,” was all Jen said.
“What did you think? That I was doing something illegal?”
She shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about what happened at Shelly’s place,” Jen said, changing subjects on him so fast he could hardly keep up. “The strangler had never used an axe before. If he hadn’t left the twine behind, I’d think the attacks were unrelated. So why the change in his mode of operation?”
The strength in her voice amazed York and her grit touched something deep inside him. “The bastard’s lost control,” he said, hanging onto his own control by a tread.
“From what Sniffles told me, the strangler didn’t follow a typical serial killer pattern from the start.”
“Right. He was detached, like a paid killer. Jen, somehow you got to him, made him hotheaded, and out-of-control people make mistakes. We’re getting closer to profiling this guy.” York blew out a gust of air. If he had to grab a suspect out of a hat, it would be Jen’s ex-boyfriend, Brock. His excuse for the bullet wound didn’t wash. York knew if he uncovered a motive, he’d have his man. It wasn’t very professional, but he’d really like to pin something on that SOB. “What can you tell me about Brock?”
Jen stiffened, like he’d thrown ice water on her. “Right in the middle of talking about the strangler, you ask about Lee? For the last time, he’s not the one who broke into my place. So, forget him.”
“If you believe he’s innocent, you shouldn’t mind giving me a rundown on him.”
“Ask him your questions!” Her voice had a cold edge.
“Why do you keep defending him?” And why does it bother me so much?
“Why is it so hard for you to understand loyalty between friends?”
“It isn’t. I value it. But misplaced loyalty is extremely dangerous.”
She folded her arms and looked out the window.
“Look, forget it for now,” he said, realizing he was only making her mad and accomplishing nothing. “Hungry?”
She laughed as though happy to leave the tension between them behind. “Starved. Something quick though. I’m exhausted.”
He pulled into a drive-thru McDonald’s behind a couple of cars. It wouldn’t take long; the front car was leaving. The late model Mercury entered the curve and passed close by Jen’s side of the car.
She stiffened and leaned forward. “Did you see that car that just left?”
“Yeah. Black Merc with two men sitting in the front seat. Why?”
She nodded. “The driver is Diego Zombolas, the mayor’s pit bull. That’s Lorenzo Monroe with him.”
The fine hairs at the back of his neck prickled. He knew Zombolas worked for the mayor. “Pit bull? What are you talking about?”
“He’s a goes-for-the-throat kind of guy, a killer type. The mayor calls him his public relations man, but everyone in the media knows he’s really his bodyguard.”
York frowned. Everyone in the department knew it, too, and he wasn’t surprised that the news hounds had figured it out. “Who is this Monroe guy?”
“He blew the whistle on some toxic dumping and made things hot for the mayor. Since the mayor’s enemies are Zombolas’ enemies, Monroe is the last person I’d expect to see him with. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned up dead by morning.”
Jen had a point. The men together didn’t compute. Were they conspiring against the mayor? What else could it be? But thinking Monroe was in danger didn’t make sense. “You think Zombolas would buy the whistle-blower a burger in a highly public Golden Arches, then knock him off?”
“Why not? They’re in a darkened car. If they hadn’t passed under that light I wouldn’t have seen them. Besides, nothing makes sense.” Her voice trembled. “What if Zombolas is the puppet master behind the strangler?”
York’s heart thumped hard against his chest. The connection to the mayor, and Jen’s use of the term puppet master spelled trouble. “Where do you come up with this stuff?”
Her eyes flashed. “Don’t play games with me. I’ll bet Sniffles told you the same thing. If you don’t want to act on this, fine. I’ll do it myself.” She turned her head away, giving the effect of slamming a door in his face.
How could someone who looked so sweet be so irritating? Did The Globe run training sessions in how to provoke, or was this something that came naturally to reporters? “Don’t get huffy. I’ll check those guys out. I’m interested in anyone who works for the mayor.”
Jen whirled around in the seat and faced him. She touched his arm. “Why? What do you know?”
Her warm touch sent adrenaline racing through his veins. He hoped his face didn’t give away his struggle to control his desire. “Only that we have too
many pieces to this puzzle that don’t fit.”
Jen flattened her lips into a fine line which, to York’s amazement, he found unbelievably sexy. Her voice hardened. “Don’t hold out on me, York.”
The air crackled with enough sexual tension to explode an atom. They were losing the battle of keeping each other at bay, and he didn’t know what to do about it. He forced a light tone. “Don’t get wild with your naturally suspicious nature.”
“What about yours? You think Lee’s the guy I shot at.”
“Convince me he’s not.”
“You don’t want to be convinced. I already told you, he wouldn’t break into my apartment knowing I have a loaded gun.”
“Maybe he’s not as smart as you think.” York wished he could tie Lee to the mayor’s office some way. Maybe by Monday morning he’d find a reason to haul his sorry butt in for questioning.
Jen frowned. “And maybe he’s smarter than you give him credit for.”
The car ahead of them left and York pulled up to the order window. “Couple of Big Macs, fries and two shakes,” he told the girl in the order window. He turned to Jen. “Chocolate okay?”
“Vanilla,” she muttered.
He shook his head. It figures.
Fifteen minutes later, they sat across from each other at Jen’s kitchen table. York watched as she stuck a plain French fry in her mouth. “How can you eat that without catsup?”
Her lowered dark lashes flicked upward, allowing her fantastic green eyes to look straight into his in a way that kicked his heartbeat into double time. “Easy,” she said. “I like the taste of potato, not sauce.”
“That’s un-American.”
She laughed. “That’s what makes me American—my individualism.”
“Touché. I guess we’re alike that way. I won’t fit into some easy slot, either.”
She laughed without humor. “But you expect a woman to fit into some old-fashioned mode for you.”
“Back to the interview, huh?”
She popped the last of her burger in her mouth, stood and headed for the door. She glanced over her shoulder. “What’s wrong with that? You do nearly the same thing, only you call it interrogation.”
When Jen started to open the door, he made a dash for her and grabbed her wrist. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.
“Seeing you out, so I can get to bed.”
“I told you. You can’t stay here. Now go pack that bag. When the killer took an axe to the door, it changed things. All the security in the world won’t keep him out now. You need a safe haven. Somewhere no one can find you.”
She placed a trembling hand over her heart. “And where would that be?”
“My place.”
Chapter Six
As the bells of a nearby church tower struck ten, Jen followed York into the already lighted foyer of his Beacon Hill home. Of course, a cop would have a timer on his lights to discourage burglars.
Watching the masterful symmetry of his back and shoulders sent an odd quiver to her stomach. Wasn’t it enough that her lips carried a permanent brand from his possessive kiss? Her cheeks warmed remembering how she’d clung to him, pressing close. With all that heat between them, it was insane to come here.
An image of the grotesque masked madman as he chopped his way through the door flashed in her mind. She rubbed her arms. She didn’t want to be alone. Yet, how could she accept the safety of York’s home, his protection, when every time he touched her, desire flared to the surface?
Smells of virgin-cut cedar and fresh paint wafted around her. He flipped on more lights.
“Oh, York,” she murmured as the step-down living room came alive with the warmth of an old-fashioned Christmas card—the beige velvet rocking chair, the fireplace with its wide mantel, the white silk poinsettias with a burgundy bow.
He put down her suitcase and overnighter. “Like it?”
His deep voice vibrated within her. He stripped off his tie and opened a couple buttons on his white shirt.
Her heart beating erratically, she managed to say, “Who wouldn’t?”
The room’s masculine burgundy and beige colors and the strong lines of the oversized leather furniture suited its virile owner. She gripped one of the high-backed chairs and forced her gaze to keep moving in order to look anywhere but at him. Newly varnished hardwood floors gleamed between scatterings of rope-weave throw rugs. Logs and paper waited to be ignited in the fireplace, the same way she waited in anticipation of his touch.
She forced a smile and gestured with her head. “Too bad it’s August.”
“The space looked empty.” He grinned. “Now I’m ready for that first cool day in September.”
“And the poinsettias?”
“Silk. On sale, and I liked them. Did I break some decorating taboo?”
She laughed at his simple explanation, and how she’d thought it might reveal some mysterious secret in his childhood. Dory’s psychology classes must’ve rubbed off on me. “Who cares? They look great.”
She picked up one of the group photographs on the mantel. “Nice looking family.”
“Big noses and bigger hearts,” he said.
She made a face at him. “You nut, they don’t have big noses.”
He came close and identified each person. The love in his voice was unmistakable. His breath stirred her hair like a warm breeze.
She stepped away and cleared her voice. “You look like your dad.” How lucky he was to share his father’s life.
Did she look like her dad? She bit her lip, hating that she cared—hating that she’d never know. She circled the room and paused at a staircase spiraling upward toward bedrooms. She ran a quivering hand over the mahogany banister seeking reassurance from its firm, smooth coolness.
“This place is fabulous, York.” She took a deep breath, damning the tremble in her voice. “I love the way you modernized without losing the old Boston charm of the place.”
He laughed. “Did most of it myself.” Pride deepened his voice. “All it takes is a little talent, and lots of money.”
Lots of money echoed in her mind.
He picked up her suitcase and overnight bag and started up the stairs. “Come on. I’ll show you to your room.”
She stayed rooted to the spot, warning signals exploding in her head like illegal fireworks. None of this jibed. She knew the high selling prices of Beacon Hill homes. Then there was the expense of restoration. Even if York did most of the work himself, it would be costly. With the extensive renovation and top quality furniture, how could he handle it on a cop’s salary? And what about getting Thurlo Wade’s van out of hock, and footing the bill to repair Shelly’s apartment and furniture? She closed her eyes briefly, remembering the wad of cash he carried, and his offer to help with Sniffles’ funeral. He didn’t come from a wealthy family. His dad had been a cop too.
In spite of needing a safe place to stay, how could she trust a man on the take, even for a night? She swallowed to moisten her cottony throat. “York, I can’t stay here.”
“What?” The blue in his eyes deepened with intensity.
“I can’t stay here,” she repeated firmly.
He placed her suitcase and overnighter on the first landing, then came back down the stairs and gently grasped her shoulders, sending heat radiating through her. “Okay. What’s going on, Jen?”
Every time she tried to form the words they got all tangled up with her memories of their kiss and how kind he’d been to Shelly and her boys. She tried to turn away from his searching gaze, but his hands held her firm. “I don’t like the way things are adding up,” she said, staring straight at the fine tangle of coal black chest hair exposed by the open neck of his shirt.
“Quit talking in riddles!”
The brusqueness in his voice made her raise her gaze to meet his. “How can a cop afford all this?”
She tried to gesture with her arm, but his grip held her immobile. Silence thundered between them. It occurred to her that a cop on the
take could be a bigger story than the billboard piece. Her stomach knotted. She blinked in surprise as she realized she’d trade both stories for proof of his innocence. “Having trouble coming up with an answer, Detective?”
His mouth tightened to an angry line. “You wish,” he growled. “Ever hear of the stock market? Been investing successfully since I was thirteen.” He glared down at her. “Are you trying to manufacture some sensationalism, Reporter?”
She glanced around the room. “You must’ve been very successful.”
“Want to see my records, my income tax returns?” His gaze didn’t waver.
Oh, God. He was telling the truth. He was innocent. She exhaled slowly. Her face burned. If only the floor would open up and swallow her. “I’m sorry, York. But you asked me. I should have known better after what you did for Shelly.”
“You’re giving me too much credit,” he said gruffly. “Although I want to keep Shelly and her kids safe, she’s an important person in this case and keeping close tabs on her is part of the job.”
“Still, you’re really a nice guy, York Wylinski.”
He shook his head. “First you think I’m a crook, then a nice guy. Do you get a kick out of throwing me off balance?”
She did. But she’d never admit it. She put her hand to her mouth to stifle an inappropriate nervous chuckle. “Why didn’t you tell me to mind my own business?”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Why let something so trivial escalate into a big deal? Besides, it’s late, and we’re both too bushed to play games. Now, do you want to see that room, or not?”
She ran up the stairs ahead of him and paused at the top landing until he joined her. She grinned. “What took you so long?”
He shook his head. “It seems I was wrong. One of us isn’t too tired to play.”
She didn’t feel playful or energetic, but spurts of action usually got her out of uncomfortable situations. Besides, hurrying up the stairs kept her from running out the door—and from thinking about the bedroom she was racing to.
He led her to a gigantic suite. She glanced at the king-sized bed and quickly looked away, forcing her gaze to trail over the desk and built-in book shelves. Jen ran her hand over the dresser’s solid, dark, cherry wood. “Wow. Ashley Williamsberg furniture,” she said fighting the constriction in her throat. “I almost chose this same set for my bedroom, but it was too large to fit.”
