Again, she left the sentence hanging. Again, he waited her out. “I’m sorry,” she said finally, “I’m not doing this very well, am I?”
“How about you come right out and say what’s on your mind?”
“Yes, of course. All right. I need advice from an expert, someone in...your field. But not official advice.”
“Meaning?”
“What I tell you must be in confidence and not part of any official report or anything like that.”
A warning bell went off in his head. “So what you’re saying is, you need a cop but don’t want any cops involved.” Before she could answer, he added, “What is it, blackmail?”
There was a long pause before she responded. “I’m not going to say anything until I have your word.”
She was making conditions, was she? “Listen, Mrs. Carlisle,” he said bluntly as the back of his neck stiffened. “I am a cop. It’s what I do, it’s who I am.”
“Fine.” Her voice turned chilly. “I’m sorry I bothered you. I thought if—Oh, never mind.”
She was about to hang up, and the realization made him blurt out “Wait a minute,” before he had a chance to think. He scratched his head, considered. He’d told her if she needed him for anything, she should call, hadn’t he? Why had he said that? Idiot, he called himself. Fool
“Look,” he said, annoyed with himself but trying not to let it show. “Tell me what this is about, okay? I can’t make any promises, but I can tell you I’ll be as discreet as possible.”
“I—” She paused, then said, “Yes, all right. But not over the phone.”
“I’m off at eight tonight. How about I swing by your place about eight-thirty?”
He heard her long sigh of gratitude. “Thank you.”
That evening, as was their custom, Cynthia and Jordan watched TV together in Cynthia’s sitting room. The older woman’s heart condition prevented her from climbing stairs, so her bedroom suite had been moved to the ground floor near the entrance to the house. Most nights, before Cynthia retired to her silk and brocade bedroom, Jordan had taken to watching the news with her—local, national, international. Even though Cynthia kept uttering tsk, tsk at all the violence, the truth was the older woman soaked up the details of that day’s horrors with a relish that bordered on the macabre.
Tonight, Jordan could have been watching a Disney cartoon for all the attention she was paying. She was on the alert, waiting for the doorbell to ring.
When it did, she got up quickly. “I’ll get it,” she told her mother-in-law as she hurried from the room. She hadn’t told Cynthia about her visitor because she hadn’t wanted to go into an explanation about the letter.
When she opened the door, Dom stood there, one hand propped on his hip, one arm leaning on the door jamb. The sight of him aroused the same reaction as a week ago—once again, he reminded her of an attractive, grown-up street tough. He was dressed in a well-worn brown and tan tweed jacket, unbuttoned, and pants that were a different shade of brown and did not quite match. An inexpensive brown tie was loosely knotted under a wrinkled white shirt collar. There was no stomach paunch over the waistband of his pants, and she had the sense of well-honed muscles beneath his clothing.
He was chewing gum and his expression seemed guarded. On his cheeks and stubborn jaw was the suggestion of a dark beard shadow. And—there was no denying it—she found the sum of all his parts extremely sexy.
Careful to keep herself composed, Jordan said, “Detective, thank you for coming.”
He nodded. “Mrs. Carlisle.”
As he entered the large hallway, she could smell a faint odor of healthy male sweat mixed with wintergreen-flavored gum. The juxtaposition made her smile for a brief moment, then she became aware of the way her nerve endings were humming in his presence, was conscious of the rapid fluttering of her pulse.
Could she blame these physical reactions on the fact that she’d barely slept the night before? That all day long she’d been on the edge, wondering how the detective would react to what she was going to tell him?
No. Jordan tried not to lie to herself. Her response to Dom was not about the letter, or not totally. In one part of her, there existed a sense of emotional and physical excitement, almost exhilaration at being in the presence of this surly, cynical policeman once again. For some reason—she was mystified as to why—this man, of all the men she’d met recently, seemed to jump-start her long-dormant juices.
Cynthia, in her billowing blue dressing gown, had followed Jordan to the door and stood staring at him. After Jordan made the introductions, she explained, “The detective has been kind enough to come here. There are some details he and I need to discuss...left over from that incident last week.”
Jordan could have predicted Cynthia’s haughty sniff. In the week since the child’s rescue, Jordan had been treated to several lectures about not getting involved in other people’s problems, about not putting herself in danger and not courting the attention of the lower life form known as the press.
“Follow me, Detective,” Jordan said.
She heard Cynthia sniff again but ignored it as she led Dom into a small family parlor off the main entrance. As she closed the double doors behind them, Jordan acknowledged that Cynthia would not approve of the closed doors, but her business with this man was both personal and private. She turned to face him.
He stood very close, his dark brown eyes studying her dispassionately while his jaw muscles clenched and unclenched as he chewed his gum. She wondered if he was aware of the powerful impact he had on her. He was the definition of total, overwhelming masculinity, nothing soft or tentative, all hardness and male brawn.
She made her mouth curve into a polite smile. “May I get you something to drink? Coffee?”
“I’m all coffeed out, thanks.”
“I’m going to have a drink, if that’s okay.”
He shrugged. “Hey, whatever.”
As she crossed to the bar, she said, “Won’t you take a seat?”
In the mirror over the bar, she saw him gaze around the room, taking in its details—the two small off-white couches, the antique chairs, the gleaming silver pieces on the glass shelves that lined one wall, the soft lighting, the Aubusson rug. He sat on one of the chairs, a Duncan Phyfe. He was not a huge man, but he seemed way too large for the delicate piece of furniture. She mixed herself a Scotch and soda—she needed something to settle her nerves.
The lady was highly agitated, Dom observed. When she’d introduced him to her mother-in-law she’d kept twisting her rings, like she’d done in the car last week. Those two rings—a large diamond, a wedding ring with smaller diamonds—represented major big bucks, enough to feed a family of five for a couple of years. Not surprisingly, there was evidence of major big bucks all around him. The house, the furnishings, the people in it, were all upper Beverly Hills at its most upper Beverly Hills.
The woman looked like she belonged here, her long legs encased in beige-colored pants. She wore a matching sweater and pearls at her throat and on her ears—expensive and real, he was sure. His gaze was drawn to her image in the mirror, to the way the sweater hugged her small, high breasts, not in an obvious way, but it was enough to send a jolt of awareness through him.
It was back, that same feeling of arousal she’d provoked the last time he’d seen her.
Dom didn’t want to be attracted to her. What he wanted was a cigarette, but he’d given them up four months ago. So he sat back, chewed his gum, tried to relax in his chair, but it wasn’t easy. Who the hell had invented these little, spindly pieces of furniture? he wondered. Had they been made for small females only? Or midgets?
He watched as she used silver tongs to put two ice cubes into a crystal glass, then poured in a nice dollop of booze over them.
“How is the little girl?” she asked.
“Who?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “That little girl who was kidnapped? Is she all right?”
“Oh. Yeah, she’s fine.”<
br />
“Did she—I mean, did you find out any more about her family?”
There was hesitancy, almost dread, behind her question, and Dom was mystified at first. Then he remembered. Mrs. Carlisle had been horrified by his downbeat description of most of the people and families he dealt with. Mrs. Carlisle, he reminded himself, was a civilian.
“Yeah, and you can relax. She has a mother and father and a big brother, a nice, middle-class family.” Her stiff posture eased slightly, and he went on. “The kidnapper was the mother’s younger brother—he’s schizophrenic and had skipped his meds. He’s back in the hospital now, and so you have your basic happy ending.”
“Thank God. And thank you for telling me.”
She took a quick slug of her drink before carrying it to the couch near his chair, where she set it on a coaster atop the highly polished coffee table. Perching on the edge of the couch, so their knees were only inches apart, the woman fidgeted with her rings again but said nothing.
She was keyed up, having a hard time with whatever was bugging her, so he helped her out. “So, what did you want to talk to me about?”
She seemed startled by his abrupt question, then favored him with a self-mocking smile. “Of course. I’m sorry. Here.” She picked up an envelope that was lying on the table, removed a photo from it and handed it to him. “Please look at that.”
Dom glanced at a picture of a kid on a swing, then at her. “Yeah?”
“I—Do you think it’s possible?”
“Is what possible?”
“The little boy looks like my son....” She gazed at him imploringly through large, anxious eyes. Dom was struck again by their eerie pale green color, the long lashes. And by those faint shadows underneath the eyes, shadows that revealed strain, despite the grooming, despite the attempt to seem in control.
“So?” he prompted, not sure where this was leading.
“I’m wondering if it’s possible he could still be alive. This came with it.”
She gave him the letter. He read it once, then a second time, then muttered an oath under his breath. He’d seen this kind of thing before, too many times, but it always evoked in him the urge to beat the crap out of whoever wrote it.
Setting the letter and the picture on the coffee table, Dom leaned in with elbows on knees, met her gaze and gave it to her straight. “Most likely it’s a scam, Mrs. Carlisle,” he said bluntly. “Don’t get yourself all worked up. After a tragedy there are all kinds of ghouls who trade on other people’s miseries. Your picture was in the papers last week. Some lowlife saw it, decided to have a little fun at your expense, maybe collect a little money.”
“Yes, yes, I keep telling myself that, but this feels different.”
“It always feels different—they count on that.” He shifted again. How in hell was a body supposed to be comfortable in this toy chair? Sitting back, he lifted his hands and dropped them to his lap. “Look, I’m not familiar with the case—”
“Of course you’re not,” she said quickly. “I shouldn’t have—”
“No, it’s okay,” he said. “I didn’t mean that. There was a car accident, right? Was your son ID’d? Was there any doubt?”
Biting her bottom lip, she closed her eyes and shook her head. “No, I guess not. I mean, the bodies were...burned beyond recognition, but there was no doubt, no.” Raising her lids, she stared into space, her eyes reflecting a painful memory. “I waved goodbye to my husband and my son, and two hours later, they were both dead.”
Dom said nothing. What was there to say? Then he managed to speak. “Gee, I’m sorry.” Lame, but it was all he could come up with.
She picked up the photo again and gazed at it. “It’s just that it looks so much like him.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, well. It’s not a very clear picture, is it?”
“I know, but the smile. it’s Michael’s smile.” As she clutched the picture to her, her eyes filled. “I wanted so much to believe.”
Watching this display of suffering, Dom felt inadequate. Stupid. Awkward. In his line of work, he was used to crying women, and the way he usually dealt with them was to distance himself, turn off. But it was hard to ignore Mrs. Carlisle’s tears, hard to remain detached from her pain. The woman needed comforting, which was not his strong suit. Theresa had been in charge of compassion. He didn’t have a lot in him.
Theresa. At the thought of his late wife, he felt an uneasy knot of discomfort harden in his gut. Stay away from this woman and her tears, a voice told him. He was reacting to her way too strongly. Something about Jordan Carlisle wiggled past his cop’s defenses and called to him, tugged at him the way Theresa used to tug at him.
Which was crazy. You couldn’t get two more different women than Theresa D’Annunzio and Jordan Carlisle. Okay, then why was he thinking about them in the same moment? This whole situation felt confusing, and Dom didn’t like feeling confused. Didn’t like it at all.
Mrs. Carlisle cried silently. The tears flowed, gliding smoothly over her cheeks. Her lower lip quivered, her hands clutched the picture like it was a religious icon. What could he—should he—do? Pat her hand? Hug her? No, he wasn’t a hugger—some guys on the force could pull that off, not him. Offer her a handkerchief? His was used, and there didn’t seem to be a handy box of tissues lying around.
What had Theresa told him? That men didn’t need to rush in to fix things all the time, didn’t always have to have solutions. Let people tell their story, Theresa had said. Maybe that was all they needed—someone to listen. Well, hell, he had ears.
“Look,” he said, “maybe you’d like to, you know, talk about this a little.” He shrugged with discomfort. “If you want to,” he added.
She used a knuckle to swipe at the moisture on the lower lids. “But I barely know you.”
“Yeah, well—” He shrugged again. Might as well go for it. “I’m here, and I’m willing. Tell me about Michael.”
Chapter 3
What was she doing? Jordan asked herself. Weeping, falling apart in front of a virtual stranger, a policeman, to boot. How had she arrived at this state? She felt uncharacteristically exposed and vulnerable. She hadn’t cried in months, but that didn’t seem to matter.
Through the misty film of her tears, she tried to shift her focus to Dominic D’Annunzio, to his face with its furrowed, unsmiling brow. He sat in his chair, his elbows on the chair’s arms. He seemed watchful, waiting. A bit tense, but not judgmental or disapproving, thank God, the way most strangers—most men—were in the presence of a woman’s tears.
Tell him about Michael, he’d said. And she knew she wanted to, desperately needed to talk to someone. The letter had begun the flow of memories, the stripping away of her defenses, and this man, with his simple, “Tell me about Michael,” had completed the job.
Composing herself seemed to be a good place to begin, so she rose from the couch and walked away from him, rubbing her arms as she did. She took a moment or two with her back to him, studying a small, ornately framed water color of lilies in a pond, while she swallowed her tears. Finally, she turned to face him and asked, “Do you have kids?”
He shook his head. “Uh-uh.”
“It’s hard to explain, especially to someone who hasn’t experienced it.”
“Try me anyway.” Still no smile, but at least a small nod of encouragement.
She came closer, sat on the couch, leaned over the coffee table, took another sip of her drink, then set it down. “You see, Detective,” she began, then stopped. “Is there something else I could call you other than detective?”
He raised one thick eyebrow in surprise, then shrugged. “Dominic, Dom, whatever.”
“All right. Then, please, call me Jordan.”
Her request seemed to make him squirm. “Yeah, sure.”
“Well, Dominic—” She smiled. “No, Dom, I think.” She focused on her hands, which were in her lap; automatically her fingers played with the five-carat perfect diamond. “The simple truth is when Michael was b
orn, I understood why I was alive. Up to then, it was as though my life had no purpose.” Looking up, she met his unsmiling scrutiny. “Oh, sure, it had looked good. There had been fame and money and parties and all that—” She dismissed it all with a wave of her hand. “But inside—” she made a fist and pressed it right beneath her breasts “—in here, nothing but emptiness. Then Michael was born—” her fist relaxed, fell to her lap “—and everything changed. Suddenly I didn’t feel useless, directionless anymore. Now I had a purpose, to be Michael’s mother, to love him, to teach him about life, to prepare him for the world.”
Biting her bottom lip, Jordan fought a fresh onslaught of tears. No. she told herself. She didn’t want to cry, wanted instead to talk it all out, to tell Dominic D’Annunzio about the miracle.
“I was a good mother,” Jordan went on. “It came to me out of nowhere just what to say and do, when to comfort him, when to let him fuss, you know. I fought my husband, my mother-in-law.” She laughed briefly. “I was fierce. They didn’t know what to do with me.”
“What did you fight about?”
“Oh, things like they wanted me to have a nanny, to leave his care to someone else. I put my foot down. I would care for him. Then my husband didn’t want me to nurse him—he was afraid I’d never get my figure back. No, I told them. I’m here, I don’t work like a lot of women have to. I want to do this, I told them. I will do this. Like I said, fierce.”
“A mama lioness with her cub.” Dom said this with a hint of admiration on his face and one side of his mouth turned up slightly.
She smiled. “Believe it.” She went on, leaning her head against the couch cushion. “He was beautiful,” she said dreamily. “Oh, I know all children are beautiful to their mothers, but truly. Not just the cute face—that’s easy, children are adorable and plump, and their skin is soft. No, inside. Michael was—” Pausing, she sought the right word. “He had a sweetness to him,” she said finally, “that wasn’t like other children. Look, I can show you.”
Eager to do just that, Jordan vaulted up, crossed the room to a book-lined alcove that was next to the bar. She removed two thick cream-colored volumes from the shelves and brought them to the coffee table. “I have pictures,” she said, setting them down, then resumed her seat on the couch once again.
The Tough Guy and the Toddler Page 4
