“When I moved back to Chicago from D.C., a friend told me about this loft. The owner, a co-worker of my friend, had just gotten married and bought a house in a new development. He wanted to keep this place and rent it out, and I didn’t see the downside. It’s close to the lake and central to everything. The move couldn’t have been easier.”
Stella could see the draw of living in the conversion building in Printers Row, though she wasn’t crazy about the rickety little elevator that took them to the fourth floor—the loft Dermot rented covered a good part of both that and the top floors.
Inside the loft, high ceilings, exposed brick walls and pegged plank floors all acknowledged the space’s former use. The living and dining areas were part of a two-story atrium. They took circular metal steps that wound up to a half floor with a landing that circled the front of the loft. The side walls of the upstairs atrium area were lined with built-in bookcases that were more than half-full, while the front wall was all long windows, duplicating the lower half of the loft.
The main part of this floor was a bedroom.
One bedroom, Stella suddenly realized.
“There’s an emergency exit to the hall on this floor,” Dermot said, indicating the door on the other side of the king-size bed. “If you’re in a hurry, you can use it to get to the elevator without going downstairs. And there’s a service elevator in the other direction.”
“Just in case I found a really big clue and wanted to bring it up here?”
He barely cracked a smile at her attempted joke. “Make yourself at home up here, Star. You can pretend I’m not even around.”
“Wait a minute. I’m not taking your bed from you.”
“Are you proposing we share it?”
Stella’s pulse jumped, but of course he was kidding. “I’m sleeping on the couch.”
“No way. The couch is mine.”
“Way. This is your place, I’m not gonna put you out.”
“You’re not putting me out. You’re letting me do what I want to do in my own home, and that’s my couch.”
“And this is your bed.”
“Want to share?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
Dermot’s answering stare was steady and penetrating. “Why ridiculous, Star?” he asked softly, moving closer to her. “I know you’re as attracted to me as I am to you.”
Her heart banged against the wall of her chest at his words. He was attracted to her.
Or was it something else altogether, something that harked to the past? Was he mixing up the ongoing urge to protect her with attraction?
Until she could be sure…
Stella feared Dermot could hear the rush of her pulse as she said, “You offer me safe harbor so you can proposition me?”
“I just want my couch.”
“All right, have the damn couch, then!”
“Thank you!” He grinned at her and stepped toward her.
“Don’t be so smug or—”
“Or you’ll what?” he asked, now so close she could hardly breathe.
What would she do? Stella wondered. She had no power over him. If anything, the reverse was true. The way his gaze was connecting with hers made her knees go weak, and she backed up against the atrium rail for support.
“Just…don’t be so smug.”
Dermot smiled, shook his head and started to step away. Then he stopped. Stared at her again. And moved so fast she didn’t have time to react. Before Stella knew what was happening, he reached around her and grasped the rail behind her with both hands.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Kissing you good-night. Unless you object.”
“I—”
Not giving her time to protest, Dermot moved his mouth over hers. His lips were soft at first, then when she didn’t try to free herself, they became more demanding.
Where was her strength when she needed it? Stella wondered as she failed to resist him.
She was a mass of contradiction, wishing to keep her distance, yet at the same time wanting him.
Raising her arms, she reached for him, surrounded his neck and pulled him closer. He let go of the railing behind her and encircled her waist so they were touching everywhere possible. Layers of clothing proved no barrier to desire. Her breasts ached, her belly tightened, her center heated and opened. All for him.
Being in Dermot’s arms like this felt so right—could they have been meant to be together from the first?
Stella ignored the little voice inside her head telling her that in the morning she would regret any rash act. She wanted Dermot so much she couldn’t resist the temptation of having him and thinking about it tomorrow.
Deepening the kiss, drawing his tongue more fully into her mouth, she rubbed her body none too subtly against his. Fire pulsed along her nerve endings, her breath quickened, and wet heat pooled along her thighs. When she felt his erection grow and press up against her belly, she tilted her hips so that she could trap his hardness and heat against her softness. He groaned and rocked against her, and Stella thought she might come apart without even undressing.
But no, that wouldn’t be enough. She’d dreamed about this moment for so long.
More than anything, she wanted Dermot naked and pressing against her, flesh against flesh. She wanted to feel him touching her, stroking inside her, wanted to hear him whispering her name…
“Stella,” he softly gasped, grasping her shoulders and setting her away from him, the gesture a rude awakening to her fantasy. His expression shocked, he murmured, “That was some good-night kiss.”
With that, he brushed her forehead with his lips and left her standing there, staring after him in frustration, as he practically flew down the stairs and away from her.
Worse was the embarrassment that drew the heat from more tender parts up into her cheeks. Head clearing and aghast at her actions, Stella wished she could snap her fingers and disappear. She’d never felt so humiliated. How could she have pushed herself at a man who apparently didn’t want her after all?
And how was she supposed to be comfortable with him now while they continued their search for the real killer?
SOME PEOPLE were too stubborn to learn from their mistakes, Stella Jacobek apparently being a prime example. Her private investigation into Tony Vargas’s death continued.
Was it that she didn’t understand the message?
Was it that she didn’t care about the consequences?
Or was it that she thought—now that she was a hotshot detective—she was going to give a few lessons of her own?
Mistake after mistake after mistake…
Mistakes on both their parts. Trying to scare her simply had been a waste of time.
If she kept at it, sooner or later she was going to stumble on the truth…unless she was leaked more information meant to mislead her. Now, that might work. And if it didn’t…well, if she were eliminated, the dance still had a chance to be performed as choreographed.
Sticking her nose where it didn’t belong hadn’t gotten Stella anything good the last time.
This time it might get her dead.
Chapter Nine
He’d had a hell of a night and the comfort level of the oversize couch had nothing to do with it.
Dermot gave up the ghost just before seven, put on a pot of coffee and jumped in the downstairs shower. Though he’d ended last evening in the same way—that shower cold—he’d tossed and turned throughout the night with little enough result. Always aware that Stella was but a winding staircase away, he’d slept in fits and starts. He seemed to have been tuned in to her every sigh, her every movement. He’d known when she’d rearranged the pillows and when she’d gotten up in the middle of the night to stand at the railing and stare down at him.
As long as Stella was staying at his place, Dermot doubted he would get much sleep.
When she’d pushed him away the first time they’d kissed, he’d figured she still wasn’t comfortable with her own sexuality.
But considering what had almost happened between them the night before, it seemed he wasn’t giving her enough credit. And truth be told, he was thankful he’d had enough sense to stop things before they’d gone any further. He couldn’t do that to her—making love to her without telling her the whole truth would be another betrayal.
The seal of the confessional was a heavier burden now than ever.
As he toweled himself dry, Dermot heard the upstairs shower start and an immediate image of Stella soapy and naked and too inviting came to him. His reaction was instantaneous. Cursing, he hit the cold water handle and stepped back under the needle-fine spray for another rude awakening.
By the time Stella came downstairs, he was thankfully in control of himself, fully dressed and in the midst of scrambling eggs in the kitchen area that was open to the rest of the loft. He hadn’t done much with the place. He’d moved in his furniture—basic black-and-gray guy stuff—and that was it. Dressed in a red boatneck sweater and pants, her golden brown hair spilling over both shoulders, Stella added a flash of warm, inviting color to an otherwise dreary indoor landscape.
“Coffee?” Dermot asked, trying to sound normal.
“Please.”
He filled a mug and pushed it toward her over the granite countertop. “Do you like cheese in your eggs?”
“I’m not really hungry.”
“But you’re eating.”
“Sounds fine.”
Great, Stella was acting weird around him now. That wouldn’t do. He grabbed dishes and flatware and pushed them toward her.
“Could you set up the table?”
Nodding, she did as he asked without comment. After pouring the eggs into the frying pan, he pulled a carton of berry punch and a bowl of strawberries from the fridge and handed her those. He noticed how her hand jumped away from his so she wouldn’t touch him.
“About last night—”
“Let’s not.”
“Star, don’t shut me out, please. I was inappropriate and I apologize.”
“You?”
“Yes, me. I never should have kissed you, but you were simply irresistible.”
“It didn’t seem that way to me.”
“It was the whole couch-bed argument. I simply got carried away. But that wasn’t fair. I brought you here to protect you, not to take advantage of you.”
“Excuse me, but no one takes advantage of me. I have my own mind.”
“I’m very aware of that.”
“And I don’t need protection.”
“If you say so.”
“Oh, don’t start.”
That was it, he had her arguing. “Would you feel better if I let you throw me so you could prove how big and strong you are?”
“Is this straight out of Psych 101 or what?”
“How about Smile, Why Don’t You? at whatever level you choose?”
Apparently Stella couldn’t help herself, because her mouth softened at the title of his made-up course, and a second later she was grinning. The wide smile lit her whole face. Once more struck by her warmth and beauty, Dermot had to fight his own physical reaction and keep things light between them.
“That’s better,” he said.
“Is it? Your eggs are burning.”
“Go ahead and laugh.” He pretended insult. “You’re going to have to eat them.”
At least Stella did so with better humor than she’d started the morning, which relieved Dermot. They couldn’t very well work together with negative tension between them. At least they couldn’t do so effectively.
They kept up the banter through breakfast.
Afterward, cleaning up with Stella’s help—bringing her a little too close for his comfort—Dermot forced himself to focus on Tony’s murder.
“Now what?” he asked. “Do you have a plan for the day?”
“I’m out of ideas until I get something to go on,” Stella admitted as she set coffee mugs in the dishwasher. “I thought I would call home and see if I have any messages. I was hoping Logan ran those plates. And maybe got an ID off the fingerprints. My cell phone’s upstairs.”
“The house phone is on the counter.”
She called while he cleared and wiped down the counter and stove. For a moment she seemed very intense. He didn’t say a word, though, lest he make her miss something.
Hanging up, she turned to him, her expression thoughtful.
“Logan?” he asked.
She nodded. “And Frank. Logan learned the license plates are registered to a man named Hector Santos. He lives a couple of blocks down from the museum. The fingerprint belongs to one Manuel Santos at the same address.”
“Looks like Manny has been a busy boy. Leaving you the threat, tailing me, waylaying you to scare you.”
Stella sighed. “Now if only we can find out who gives him his marching orders…”
“So let’s pay the Santos household a visit.”
“Exactly what I had in mind. After which, it’ll be time for fiesta.”
“You want to party?” Dermot asked.
“Frank gave me another heads-up. Word is Marta Ortiz plans to eulogize her dear departed cousin Tony at the opening of the Day of the Dead festivities.”
“You think she’ll have something good to say about Tony?”
“She’s a politician and he was her cousin. What do you think?”
“I think it should be interesting to see how she makes a small-time criminal sound like a saint.”
THE SANTOS APARTMENT took up the front half of its building’s second floor and perched over an old-fashioned tavern on the corner. A couple of shrieking kids came running down the stairs as Stella tried to make her way up with Dermot following. A short, gently rounded woman in a flowered dress stood on the second-floor landing and yelled down at them in Spanish to stay off the street.
Stella figured she was wasting her breath. The streets around here were the neighborhood play grounds, and kids rarely listened to grown-up warnings, anyway.
The woman was about to go back into her apartment—so hoping she spoke English, Stella called, “Mrs. Santos?”
“Yes?”
Only a hint of an accent. Good. That made things easier.
“Detective Stella Jacobek.” She pulled out and opened her identification, then held it up so the woman could see it as she and Dermot caught up to her. “I need to talk to you.”
Mrs. Santos mumbled something under her breath and crossed herself. Her dark eyes were panicky as she asked, “Is someone dead?”
Stella’s stomach knotted at the question. What must it be like to live on a daily basis in fear of your loved ones dying, no doubt because of the gang wars? This woman appeared to be young—maybe in her mid-thirties or so—too young to consider losing a child or husband.
“No one in your family,” Stella assured her. At least not that she knew, Manny being a wild card and all. “But I need to ask you some questions about a coupla things that happened in the past few days. Can we come in?”
Glancing from Stella to Dermot, Mrs. Santos nodded.
They followed her into an apartment that was both shabby yet inviting. The furniture and rugs were old but clean, and except for a few toys strewn across the living room floor the place was in order. The walls were a bright turquoise and dotted with religious ar tifacts and family photos. And small vases of flowers were set in areas where the smaller kids couldn’t knock them over.
Twisting her hands together, Mrs. Santos asked, “What is it you want with me?”
“Hector Santos,” Dermot said. “Is he your husband?”
“Yes, but he’s not here now. He’s at work,” she gasped, “isn’t he?”
“Probably,” Dermot murmured reassuringly. “As far as we know.”
“What about Manny?” Stella asked.
“My oldest son.”
“Is he home?”
Mrs. Santos shook her head. “What has he done now?”
The woman’s expression grew even more frightened, convincin
g Stella she knew about his gang involvement. She hated giving the poor woman the bad news.
“He and two other boys stopped me in the street and threatened me yesterday.”
“No!” Mrs. Santos whispered, her attempt at denial weak. She mumbled a quick prayer to the Lord in Spanish.
“I’m afraid he did, Mrs. Santos, though he didn’t actually hurt me. I also believe Manny delivered a threatening message to my home.”
Dermot added, “And we think he used your husband’s truck to follow me the other night.”
Even as she said, “No, not my Manny,” belief mixed with fear for her son in her eyes.
Knowing she wasn’t really disillusioning the other woman, Stella asked, “How long has Manny been a Viper?”
Manny’s mother began to shake. Dermot gently patted her shoulder.
“Perhaps you would like to sit?”
Mrs. Santos nodded and sank to the couch. So that she could be at eye level with her, Stella took the chair opposite, while Dermot continued to stand behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder in support. Affected as always by his touch, she glanced up at him and caught his compassionate expression for the distraught woman.
“I told him to leave the gang alone,” she began, “but he wouldn’t listen to me or his father. They get them so young, before you even know it. Manny used to go out of his window at night and climb down the drainpipe. He doesn’t bother hiding what he’s doing anymore.” She gave Stella an imploring look. “Isn’t there anything we can do so you don’t have to put my Manny behind bars?”
“I’m not here to arrest him.”
The woman looked at her as though she didn’t understand. “But you said he did these bad things…”
But not bad enough or with proof enough to make an arrest stick, and Stella knew it. Taking him in would only generate paperwork, and in the end, he would probably walk.
“Well, he didn’t hurt either one of us this time,” she said. “And someone put him and the others up to no good. That’s the person I want.”
“Others?” Mrs. Santos echoed. “Which boys?”
“I didn’t get one of the names. The youngest was called Pablo.”
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