He had to reason with her, talk her out of going any further. “What do you know about this guy, Jordan? How trustworthy can he be? You’ve already given him five thousand bucks. He’ll string you along forever.”
“Don’t you think I know that? But—”
He didn’t let her finish. “Do you have any idea what kind of danger you might have walked into tonight?” His fear was heating up his anger again, but he tried, really he did, to hold back. “People disappear from this neighborhood every day, without a trace and without anyone asking questions when they do.”
“But the picture.” She raised her clasped hands to her chest. “It was Michael.”
“Come off it, Jordan.”
“You come off it, Dom!” she exploded. “You don’t have children. You have no idea how it is, how it feels. The little boy in that picture is my child. I’d know him whatever age he was. I’m his mother. And I want him back. If it means exposing myself to danger, if it takes every penny I can lay my hands on, then that’s what it will take!”
Her intensity was like a blast of volcanic heat, and as it seared him, Dom felt his vehemence draining away. In its place was a quiet, cold feeling of dread. Sitting in the car with him was a woman whose blind instinct to hold and protect her young might lead her to do something really stupid. There would be no talking her out of it. She would not listen to logic or reason.
Theresa had possessed that same fierce maternalism even though she hadn’t yet been a mother. And it had destroyed her. He couldn’t let it happen again. He could not, once again, stand by helplessly while a woman put herself in danger.
No, he decided. However much she might protest, he would make Jordan’s business his business. This time he would be totally, one-hundred-percent involved. He might have been a loser of a husband, maybe even not much of a man, but he was a good cop, damn it. His expertise would go far toward keeping Jordan safe.
Propping an elbow on the steering wheel, he wiped his mouth and assessed Jordan. Her back was stiff, her gaze determined and intense. Now he had to put his fear for her safety away. Now the cop would take over for the man.
“Okay, I hear you,” he said. “You’re willing to go all the way, whatever it takes, to see if Michael’s still alive. But what I need is to find out more about Wally. Will you go along with me on that?”
After a pause, Jordan said, “Yes.”
He removed his pad and pen from his inner jacket pocket and made notes. “Wally didn’t mention any last names?” She shook her head. “Works in Bakersfield, but his family lives up north, and he didn’t name the town. I need to ID him, see if he has a record. You still got the letters?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll need them, check them for fingerprints. Tonight, in the bar, did he get his prints on anything you can think of? A drink?”
“Two.” Jordan seemed calmer now, caught up in the spirit of investigation, which was how he wanted her to feel. “But the bartender has probably picked up the glasses already.”
“Did he touch anything else?”
She thought about it. “Me. My clothes, I mean. He patted me down.”
“He what?” Dom barked.
“It wasn’t sexual,” she said with a nervous laugh. “I don’t think he was interested in me as a woman, more like a cash cow.”
He shook his head. The little weasel would pay for that one. “The son of a bitch,” he said, hardly aware he’d said it out loud.
“Yes, and all the while he kept assuring me this wasn’t blackmail, that I was free to go anytime I wanted.”
“Covering his bases,” Dom muttered.
“I suppose so. But I already gave him the money—” She snapped her fingers. “My money belt.”
“Your what?”
“I had the money in a money belt, and he touched it all over.”
“You still have it?”
Her face fell. “I left it back there, in the booth.”
He started up the motor, rammed the gear into drive. “I’m dropping you at your car. Where is it?”
“A block from Carlo’s.”
“Okay.” Dom punched on the lights and pulled away from the curve, adrenaline rushing through his system. “Get in your car, go home. I’ll get the money belt, get it dusted for fingerprints, run them through.”
“You’re sure he won’t find out?”
“How can he?”
“Maybe I’m making a mistake. Dom, I’m worried about your involvement.”
He laughed sardonically. “Too late. I’m involved.”
“Dom!”
The sharp edge to her voice made him glance at her. It was all there on her face—frustration, exhaustion, fear. He pulled over, kept his foot on the brake, turned to stare at her. “You’ve got to stop this.”
“I know. And I know I keep vacillating, going back and forth about letting you in, not letting you in. I know it and I’m sorry. But I’m so scared.” Her expression ripped at him. While her eyes pleaded with him, behind the plea was a vulnerability that made something in his chest turn over. What could he say? What could he do to ease her distress?
The question had barely crossed his conscious mind before he rammed the gearshift into park, unhooked his seat belt, reached over, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.
At first she jerked with surprise, tried to pull away. But he deepened the kiss, stroked the satiny soft flesh of her cheeks with his thumbs. She stilled, then moaned and opened her mouth to grant access to his tongue.
A slow, simmering heat crept into his bloodstream. All he’d wanted to do was to comfort her, but now he wanted to linger there in the soft, moist recesses of her mouth, to explore and taste all her textures.
But not here, on a dark, downtown street. And not now. Reluctantly, he broke off the kiss. “Don’t worry, okay?” he said quietly, smoothing his thumb over her lips. “Leave it all to me.”
Her eyelids were heavy as she gazed at him, and he watched as sensual intoxication was replaced by a return to anxiety. Jordan closed her eyes again, ducked her head and turned away from him.
“You think all you have to do is kiss me and I’ll shut up. I shouldn’t have told you anything. I’m a fool.”
“No. You’d be a fool if you tried to handle this on your own.”
She shook her head. “I’m so confused. I don’t know what’s the right thing to do. All I know is I want my son back. If anything jeopardizes my chance to see him again—” She shrugged disconsolately, left the sentence unfinished.
Dom put the car into gear, pulled away from the curb and headed into the night.
A bubble bath usually relaxed her, but tonight the hot water and scented oil weren’t doing the trick. Tremors of anxiety, impatience, worry continued to quiver through her. Jordan was a mother whose child was out there somewhere, living a life apart from her, and she ached with longing for him, fear for him.
Was he happy? Eating well? Loved? Or the reverse, mistreated and—
No, she told herself for the umpteenth time. If she did a what-if scenario filled with every mother’s nightmares, she might go insane. And what good would she be to Michael then?
She rose from the tub and reached for the large, thick towel draped on the warming rack. As she dried herself off, she played back the entire evening, doubting herself yet again, questioning her actions. Could she have behaved differently with Wally? Could she have said something, done something that might have brought her reunion with Michael any closer?
The good news, Mrs. Carlisle. Your son isn’t dead. The bad news, Mrs. Carlisle—you can’t have him. Not ever, according to Wally, if she brought in the cops. Was it wise to have told Dom everything? Would that backfire? Would Wally find out somehow, cut off contact with her? Was she relying on Dom too much, expecting more of him than it was possible to deliver?
Dom. Jordan found herself rubbing the towel over her breasts and thinking about him at the same time. Her nipples grew hard at the memory of that kiss. It had come out
of nowhere, it seemed, and had made her bones melt. Instant arousal had flooded her, that same arousal that seemed to take place whenever he touched her...
The hand clutching the towel stilled. How could she be thinking about Dom now, about physical attraction, when there was so much else that needed her attention? Even so, as she dried her legs, she reflected on her lame attempt that afternoon—had it just been that afternoon, she wondered—when she’d told him to go away, that she was turning down his offer to share his bed.
Utter foolishness, she thought. She wanted him, of course she did. If these were normal times, she’d be rejoicing at her ability to feel this way. These were not normal times, but in the midst of all the fretting about Michael, Dom was constantly on her mind, in the background, like some tune you heard and couldn’t get out of your head.
She had to stop thinking about Dom and her own physical needs. All her energy was required to concentrate on getting Michael back.
Energy and purpose. Control.
Tonight, with Wally, she’d felt only powerlessness, a lack of control. It was how it had been for so many years in so many areas of her life. She’d been pushed into a career she hadn’t sought and didn’t particularly enjoy, moved into a marriage that appeared fine on the outside but was rotten at the core. Widowhood and childlessness had been thrust on her in one shattering moment.
As she slipped on her ivory nightgown, she faced the fact that she had never been in control, not one moment of her life. She had never taken control. It was time to do just that. So... what could she do about getting Michael back?
She climbed into bed and closed her eyes. Think, she ordered her mind. Come up with something concrete. Dom was dealing with identifying Wally. Wally’s sister was Myra. Myra had been one of Reynolds’s girlfriends. How could Jordan find out more about Myra?
She sat up straight in bed. Of course! Hal! Hal Cooper, Reynolds’s oldest and closest friend. He would know all about Reynolds’s girlfriends. Maybe he’d even met Myra. Yes, Jordan thought with building excitement, as she turned on her light and reached for the phone. She’d punched in most of Cooper’s number when she happened to glance at the clock.
Midnight. No, she couldn’t call Hal, not now. It would have to wait till the morning. Replacing the receiver, she lay against the pillow, eyes wide open.
Hal would want to know why she was asking about Myra. How much could she tell him? Not much at all, was the answer. At this point, only one other human being, Dom, knew about the possibility of Michael being alive. Even if she swore Hal to silence, she knew he would honor it only until he felt like it. It might be public in a matter of hours. Nothing was to be public, nothing, not until Michael was safe.
As she finished that thought, another flicker of disquiet assailed her. What about Cynthia? New considerations and questions rushed through her feverish brain nonstop. Shouldn’t her mother-in-law know what was going on? Michael was her grandson, after all.
And the hard cold fact remained that Jordan might have to pay more money, lots of it, to get Michael back, especially if efforts to trace Wally’s family were unsuccessful. Cynthia was wealthy. She wrote five- and ten-thousand-dollar checks to her favorite causes all the time.
Every instinct rebelled at the thought of asking her mother-in-law for money, but again, when it came to getting Michael back, there was no room for pride.
Yes, Jordan decided, in the morning she would tell Cynthia, prepare her. It was the right thing to do. Then she would call Hal. These were concrete, specific tasks. She was taking action. Finally.
Standing at the kitchen sink, Dom took a sip of instant coffee and stared out the window. The new day was coming in cloudy and overcast, but there was supposed to be plenty of sunshine by afternoon. He was showered, shaved and dressed, and it was only six o’clock. This not sleeping bit was going to take its toll one of these days, but he didn’t feel a thing now except anxious to get on with his day. He had the money belt wrapped in plastic, and he wanted to get to the bureau early and set the wheels in motion.
Still, six was too early. His contact at the Scientific Services Bureau, the SSB, wouldn’t be in till eight.
Was it too early to call Jordan? he wondered. Probably, but he picked up his phone anyway and punched in her numbers.
“Yes?” She answered on the second ring.
He felt a small lightening in his chest at the sound of her voice. “Hi,” he said gruffly, to mask his sudden mood upswing.
“Oh, Dom.” Two words, that was all she said, but he got how keyed up she was.
“How are you holding up this morning?”
“Running on sheer nerves. And you?”
“Hey, you know me—Mr. Serenity.”
His sarcasm made her laugh. God, he loved her laugh. It was a full-throated yet husky, low-pitched sound, and it immediately activated his groin area. One day soon, he promised himself, he would have her in his bed. And it better be soon, he thought. She was a good part of his sleeplessness.
“What happened with Nick?” Jordan asked him.
“Nothing. He lost the guy ”
The message had been on Dom’s machine when he’d gotten home. The blond kid had ducked into an alley. Nick had watched him go a few steps and turn down an alley that ran in back of the buildings. Dom had told Nick to be super careful not to be spotted, so he hadn’t given chase. By the time Nick had hurried around the block to head him off, he’d lost him. He’d seen a car—silver Honda, maybe ten years old, hatchback model—driving away, but he wasn’t even sure it was the kid at the wheel. Nick had been too far away to make out the license plate number.
“So,” he told Jordan, “we’re not any further along than we were last night.”
“Oh.” She expelled a breath of disappointment. “What about the money belt? Did you get it?”
“Yeah. But leather doesn’t take prints too well, so I’ll need the letters for backup.”
“I’ll drop them off to you today—where is your office? Or station, or whatever you call it?”
“Office, station, bureau, HQ. Doesn’t matter,” he told her as he considered. The investigation so far was still unofficial, and it would be best for all concerned if it stayed that way. For now. “Better not bring them there,” he told her. “I don’t want to draw any attention. How about I pick them up from you?”
“No,” Jordan said firmly. “You’ve done more than enough for me, Dom. Let me do something for a change.”
“Well, I’ll be here at home for another hour or so.”
“Tell me where you live.”
As he reeled off his address, he decided to include his home phone and pager number while he was at it. She might as well have all his numbers. She might need them.
“I’ll be there in half an hour, forty-five minutes,” Jordan said, “tops. Oh, Dom,” she went on, her voice a notch lighter than it had been a moment ago, “talking to you has made me feel more hopeful.”
“Yeah?” Should he tell her not to waste the energy, that all this might come to nothing? Should he tell her that from now on they would be playing a waiting game, one that involved footwork and patience and a lot of dependence on other people’s schedules? Not to mention luck and maybe some prayer?
Nah, why spoil her mood. Let her have her optimistic outlook, for a while anyway. “You know how to get here?” he asked her. “Venice is filled with dead ends. It’s just off Abbot Kinney Boulevard.”
Jordan smiled into the phone, grateful for the small, upward turn of her spirits. She’d been pretty anxious before Dom called. “I’ll find it. Don’t worry.”
Cynthia chose that moment to come into the breakfast alcove, and she raised her eyebrows at the sight of Jordan on the telephone so early in the morning.
“I have to go now,” Jordan told Dom. and pushed the off button.
Cynthia sat down and rang the small porcelain bell in front of her. She wore a long green silk dressing gown, and without her careful makeup and hairdo, which she always attended t
o after breakfast, she seemed tired. With a start Jordan realized that although her mother-in-law was close to seventy—no longer considered old—her heart condition made her appear fragile, even elderly.
Maybe, Jordan considered, she needed to rethink last night’s decision to let her in on the current situation.
“Who were you talking to?” Cynthia asked.
Jordan almost lied but didn’t like herself for the impulse. “Detective D’Annunzio.”
“That policeman?”
“Yes.”
Cynthia sniffed as Sofia appeared in the doorway, her broad, peasant’s body clad in a cotton print dress and apron, her hair off her face in a neat bun. The housekeeper glanced at the halfeaten piece of melon on Jordan’s plate, then at her. “Will you be wanting anything else, Mrs. Jordan?” she asked in her Eastern European accent.
“No, thank you, Sofia.” Her appetite, never hearty, had been practically nonexistent lately.
“And you, madame?” she asked Cynthia.
“Just some toast and tea, Sofia, thank you.”
After the housekeeper had left, Cynthia picked up the newspaper folded by her place and opened it to the obituaries, as she did each morning. Jordan took another sip of her coffee, cold now, and glanced at her watch. She had time to talk to Cynthia for a few moments and still make it to Dom’s house before he had to leave.
As she got up to pour herself a fresh cup at the sideboard, Cynthia spoke from behind her newspaper. “Are you working today?”
“I think I’ll drop by the shop for a couple of hours.”
“Did you happen to remember that we have the myasthenia gravis dinner tonight at the Bel-Air?” The way the question was phrased made Jordan realize that her mother-in-law was sure she did not remember. Which was correct—she had completely forgotten.
Seating herself again, Jordan took another sip of coffee, hot and welcome. “I’m not sure I can go.”
“Will you be seeing that policeman instead?”
Jordan’s defensiveness clicked in, but she counseled herself not to let the remark get to her. She had nothing to apologize for, nothing to be ashamed of. “Not tonight,” she said truthfully. “But I do like him,” she added, “so I expect I’ll be seeing more of him.”
The Tough Guy and the Toddler Page 14
