by Ana Barrons
Suzannah tipped her blond head to one side and studied him. “There’s someone else, isn’t there? I’ve sensed it for months.”
Joe gave a harsh laugh. “There’s always someone else, or haven’t you been paying attention all these years? I haven’t been the one insisting that what we had together was the best thing that ever happened to me, no offense, Suz.”
“I think you’re still bitter that I left you for Sam.”
“I’m not still bitter. I got over that a long time ago.”
When she’d dumped him for Sam Mitchell she actually had the nerve to blame Joe’s “lack of political ambition” for the breakup. When she came sniffing around for sex, in the years when Sam was still in the Senate, she always insisted he was the love of her life, but that fate had come between them. Fate, my ass. Suzannah was spoiled, self-centered and infinitely ambitious, and if she preferred Joe Rossi as a lover to the current vice president of the United States, then by God, she deserved to have him, and how dare he refuse her. It pissed her off that he’d only given in once, six months after she and Sam had been married. The memory still shamed him.
“You know what, Joe?” Suzannah said in that haughty tone that meant he had insulted her. “I think I’m glad that woman punched you in front of all those people. Betsy Eberhart will never let you step foot in her house again.”
“How will I ever live?” In a million years he would never admit to Suzannah how much the reference to Catherine rattled him. “Although she does put out an exceptional spread.”
“Who could blame her? Catherine, I mean. After you told the whole world her sister had screwed her husband. How humiliating.”
“The article wasn’t about her, it was about Blair.”
“True. Then, of course, all those other little papers dug around for better dirt—and got it.” She tapped one long fingernail against her lips. “But you weren’t the one who wrote that Style article about that horrible business with her in-laws. Which makes me wonder why she took it out on you, personally.”
He shrugged. “Well, I was the one who broke the story about Blair screwing around in the first place,” he said, careful to give nothing away. The only person who knew about his long-distance relationship with Catherine was his editor, and he meant to keep it that way. “You were my major source, remember?”
“Yes, and the police said the story was based solely on gossip when it came out in November. That really pissed me off.”
Joe smiled. “Well, if they’d known who my source was I’m sure they would have taken it a little more seriously.”
“Mmmm. But when they found the body and you mentioned the same names they didn’t chalk the story up to gossip—at least, not right away.”
What was she digging for? Joe raised his palms. “So?” He wanted to get this over with and go home.
“Well, it’s obvious that your inside knowledge about the Morrissey sisters made the whole story credible. I mean, who could deny Blair Morrissey was a slut after she screwed her sister’s husband, for heaven’s sake?”
Which was exactly why he’d spilled information Catherine had given him in confidence, damn his unethical soul to hell. He had to establish Blair’s promiscuity to give credibility to his allegations. Regret twisted inside him, eliciting a curt, “What are you getting at?”
Suzannah’s eyes were lit up again, but not with lust. The emotion was something much baser than that. “I have a feeling you and Catherine had a little something going on, and that’s how you knew all the juicy details.”
“You’re fishing.”
“I don’t think so.” She leaned forward. “I watched her throw that punch at you. A woman doesn’t deck a man with that kind of fury unless she’s in love with him. And by the way, that’s a nasty bruise.”
“In love?” he said, incredulous. “That’s a pretty funny way to show someone you care.” He rubbed his hand around the back of his neck. “Is this why you got me over here? To grill me about Catherine?”
Suzannah laughed.
“What is so fucking funny?”
“There, you see what I mean? I know you, Joe. There’s something going on between you two.”
He rubbed his eyes. Goddamn her for being so perceptive. Well, she could work on him all night, but he wasn’t admitting anything. “So, what do you know about this poor schmuck Syrian handyman who’s taking the fall for Blair Morrissey’s murder?”
Suzannah pushed herself off the sofa and retrieved a cigarette from the mantle.
“Those things’ll kill you,” he said.
“What do you care?” She lit it and leaned against the fireplace, one arm wrapped around her waist in her “wronged woman” pose.
Joe stood and checked his watch.
“It’s a national-security issue,” she said quickly.
God, she was so predictable. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He waved away the smoke wafting toward him.
“It means he’s a suspected terrorist, that’s what. Which is why the police aren’t talking. There. That’s something you can tell your girlfriend as long as you don’t tell her who told you.”
“She’s not my girlfriend. And that sounds like a bullshit answer if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Her eyes flashed in anger. “Believe what you like, Joe. But if you’re going to stand there and insult me, I’d rather you left.”
Joe leaned down and gave her a quick peck on the lips before she could uncross her arms. “Sorry. I’m tired and cranky, that’s all. I really gotta go, Suz. The kids—”
She waved him away, and Joe tried not to notice the sadness in her famously blue eyes. “Go ahead, leave. If you’re not interested in my cure for cranky, there’s nothing I can do.” She gave him a weak smile.
Joe smiled back. “You’re living the life you’ve always wanted, and then some. And Sam’s a good man. He’ll make a great president.”
She turned away quickly. “Go home, Joe.”
Joe reached out to touch her and stopped with his hand in midair. It would only drag this out, and he wasn’t interested in another scene.
“Catch you later, Suzy Q,” he said.
He stepped into the humid night air and opened the back door of the car without a glance at the agent.
He slid into the seat, yawned and rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted and uneasy. Suzannah’s answer had been too pat. Too convenient. Either she wasn’t telling him everything or someone had actually convinced her that the suspect in Blair’s murder was a terrorist. Who knew what kind of trumped up charges they were holding the poor guy on.
The question remained... Why?
Chapter Nine
Joe couldn’t remember ever being so crabby. It was almost eleven and he hadn’t realized until he got into his car back at the Herald that his cell phone had been off all evening. There were seven messages from Tiffany, six of them telling him Mike was throwing up and she didn’t know what she was supposed to do. Thank God, the last message said Mike was okay and she was going to sleep.
He banged the steering wheel with the side of his fist. Damn it! Mike and Tiffany were his responsibility and he’d left them alone all that time with no way to reach him. He pressed down harder on the gas pedal. From now on they’d have a babysitter no matter how loud Tiff squawked.
On top of everything else, he couldn’t get Catherine out of his mind. It had been three days since the fundraiser, and so far she hadn’t called.
Maybe he should have sent two dozen roses.
The only thing she’d really like from me is my head on a fucking platter.
There were lights on downstairs when Joe pulled his Honda to a stop in the alley behind his house. He unlocked the back door and stepped into the mudroom, only to be greeted by a faint eau de vomit.
“Jesus.” He spotted
a pile of wet clothes on the washing machine and guessed that the kids had rinsed them out but hadn’t washed them. Well, that was progress. They didn’t leave the mess for him to clean up. Then he saw the black, lacy bra dangling over the side.
He snagged it with one finger and held it up to make sure it couldn’t possibly be one of Tiffany’s. No way. Tiff was barely developed, and whoever fit into this was very well filled out. Pam? Had she and his father showed up unexpectedly? He hadn’t seen either of their cars, but that would explain it. He laid the bra back on the pile and strode into the kitchen.
There was a big bottle of ginger ale on the counter, an unwashed bowl with leftover milk in it—no matter how many times he told the kids not to overdo the milk in their cereal, they always poured in enough for two bowls—a large bowl with popcorn kernels in the bottom, a few glasses. Nothing out of the ordinary. He dropped his keys on the table and headed toward the stairs.
He crossed the living room, scanning. If Pam and his dad were there, they’d have to be sleeping in his room. He stopped for a second. Nah, his dad wouldn’t crash before he got home. So, okay, maybe they stopped by and saw that Mike was sick, so Dad left Pam to take care of him and then went to see one of his old FBI buddies. Made sense.
Tiffany’s room was at the top of the stairs, and her light was on. Christ, the girl was a night owl. He knocked softly. When she didn’t answer he pushed her door open and saw her curled in a fetal position with her headphones on, a stuffed panda in her arms. A lump rose in his throat. Poor Tiff.
He leaned over the bed and carefully removed her headphones, then pulled the covers over her. He sat beside her for a couple of minutes, remembering Evie in high school, laughing and drinking with him, crying to him over some boyfriend, cheering him on the football field. She’d been a good friend. When she had phoned Joe in May and asked him to take care of her little girl, it had been the first time she’d called him in twelve years. Joe asked why she wanted to leave her teenage daughter with a confirmed bachelor like him, and she told him he was the best friend she’d ever had and the only man she knew would treat her baby right. Tiffany had never had a father, and Evie was adamant that she needed a strong male presence in her life.
You’re the most decent guy I’ve ever known, Joe, she’d told him.
He wondered what Catherine Morrissey would say to that.
He kissed Tiffany gently on the cheek, stroked her fine brown hair off her face and tiptoed out of the room. He crossed the hall to Mike’s room and pushed the door open. The smell of vomit was overpowering. Aw, God, the poor kid. Then he noticed the bed was empty. Strange. He shut the door tightly behind him and walked quietly down to the end of the hall, to his own room.
The door was sitting open, and in the near darkness he could make out the unmistakable form of a woman on the far end of his queen-size bed. Okay, so it had to be Pam. He slipped out of his shoes and crossed the room as quietly as he could. Mike was curled up facing her, his head resting against her breasts, her arm thrown over his shoulder. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Joe realized the woman cuddling Mike was not a petite blonde. So, not Pam.
His chest tightened. Who the hell was she? He moved closer to the slim, shapely form in a tiny black tank top that had ridden halfway up her back and a pair of his old Georgetown sweats sitting low on her hips. Long legs curled toward Mike, dark hair lying across her face and partway down her back. Her deep, even breathing told him she was sound asleep. He spotted the big pot beside the bed, the towel draped over the side. Whoever this angel of mercy was, it was obvious she’d been taking care of Mike—and gotten puked on for her efforts. Someone from the Herald?
Right. Get the kid out of the bed and then figure it out. Joe levered his arms under Mike’s overwarm body. The boy began to stir, and Joe slipped him out from under the mystery woman’s arm as quickly as he could to avoid waking her. He carried Mike out of the room and then remembered that his bed was full of puke. Great, just great.
“Joe,” Mike whispered. “I have to pee.”
“Okay, sport, I’ll put you down by the toilet and get those gross sheets off your bed.”
Mike was wobbly when Joe stood him in front of the toilet, but he seemed able to take care of the business at hand with no assistance from him. He grabbed clean sheets out of the linen closet, dragged the soiled bedding off Mike’s bed and dumped it unceremoniously in the tub. Mike was still standing there with his dick in his hand, weaving like a drunk.
“You feel like throwing up again?” Joe asked.
“Uh-uh. I’m so cold. Where’d Catherine go?”
Joe felt a cold tingle down his spine. No, it couldn’t be... But suddenly he knew with absolute certainty that it was Catherine, unaccountably at his house, in his bed, wearing his sweats and a tiny shirt that had to belong to Tiffany. His heartbeat picked up. The yellow roses must have done the trick after all.
“She’s still asleep, Mike,” he said. “Come on, let’s get these clean sheets on your bed and go back to sleep.” Mike followed him and sat on the floor while Joe made the bed.
“When did Catherine come?” Joe asked.
“I don’t know. I threw up and then she came in the bathroom and made me take a bath because I had a fever.” He yawned widely and his body shook with the effort. “I threw up on her, but she said a little puke never killed anybody.”
Joe smiled. “How’d she end up on the bed with you?”
“I just asked her and she said okay.” Mike climbed into bed and pulled the comforter to his chin. “She’ll be surprised when she wakes up and sees you there instead of me.”
Kid, you don’t know the half of it. “I’ll try not to scare her too bad,” Joe said. “I hear she packs a wicked punch.”
He briefly considered bunking down on the couch so Catherine wouldn’t freak out, but rejected it. She had come to his house, fallen asleep in his bed wearing his sweatpants. The whole thing had been her idea. And he preferred to find out sooner rather than later why she’d come to see him.
He entered his room and saw immediately that she hadn’t budged an inch. He closed the door firmly, figuring if she started screaming maybe she wouldn’t wake up the kids. Then he climbed on the bed and moved behind her. Her hair was spread across his pillow, and he couldn’t resist picking it up, testing its weight in his hand, feeling its silky smoothness. When she still didn’t move he decided to be a bit bolder.
He laid his hand on her shoulder and shook her very gently. “Catherine,” he whispered. “Wake up.”
She didn’t budge.
Of course she needed to sleep. Grieving people either couldn’t sleep at all or couldn’t get out of bed.
He reached across her body and stroked her hand, which was lying, palm up, beside her head. Where his body made contact with hers she was warm, and soft, and he remembered how he had reacted when he touched her the other night. A subtle flowery scent wafted up from her hair. Lilacs, maybe. Or honeysuckle. He wanted to bury his face in it, nibble his way down her neck. The punch in the mouth notwithstanding, he couldn’t remember being more attracted to a woman. His body tightened as he instinctively moved closer to her.
Joe stroked his hand down her arm, thinking to wake her up gradually, knowing he was being only half-honest with himself. He wanted to touch her, it was as simple as that. He moved his hand lightly back up her arm to her shoulder, paused as though to shake her again, but found he didn’t want to. Not yet. When she woke up she would push him away, reject him, probably hurl more insults at him. Why the hell had she come?
His touch on her arm was getting firmer, and he drew it back up. This time, the tips of his fingers grazed the side of her breast and he sensed a tiny shiver under his hand. He paused at her shoulder. Shake her again, he told himself. Call her name. He smoothed his palm lightly down the soft skin of her side, dipping at her waist and up the gentle slope to her
hip. She was thin. Too thin. Probably wasn’t eating enough. Her breathing was changing, and he felt a subtle tightening of her muscles. His body tensed and hardened as he stroked back up her side, over her shoulder and down her arm.
He rested his cheek on her upper arm and slid his hand back down her side, over her hip, and felt her pelvis push forward in that most primitive sexual response. Just as instinctively he pushed his hips forward so he was molded against her body. She moaned softly in her sleep. The sound was more arousing than he could bear. He slid his palm over her abdomen, holding her against him, shaking with the effort of not moving his hand up to her breasts or down between her legs.
“Catherine,” he whispered, so softly he could barely hear it. “Please wake up.” In answer, she lifted her hand to his face. She must be dreaming. No way would he take advantage of her in her sleep. If she didn’t already hate him, she would surely hate him for that.
There was only one thing he could do. He moved away from the temptation of her body. As though she were connected to him, Catherine’s body moved with his. She rolled onto her back and suddenly her face was mere inches from his. Her breath fanned his mouth, and he automatically reached across her body, gathering her to him.
“Joe?” It was barely a whisper.
A thrill ran through him. “Yeah. It’s me.”
“Thank God.” She reached around to the back of his neck and pulled his head down.
He heard her sharp intake of breath when his mouth touched hers, and then her lips parted, drawing his tongue inside. Nothing had prepared him for this kiss. She opened her mouth wider, urging his tongue to probe deeper. His knee found its way between her legs, and she pushed against it. He shifted so his body was half on top of her and let his thumb trace the outside of her breast lightly. Her breathing grew more and more ragged as he deepened the kiss and rocked against her.
A voice inside his head, the little voice that told him when he was doing something he would regret later, was screaming at the top of its lungs, and try as he might to shut it out, he couldn’t. He had to stop this, at least until he was sure she knew whose hand was about to caress her breasts and slide into her panties. God almighty, he wanted to do it, more than he had ever wanted to do anything. But the voice wouldn’t stop.
