by Ana Barrons
“Were you in the bar every night?”
He nodded. “The night he was killed, my brother was in the bar and so was this guy. He greeted us like old friends and started buying drinks. Luis hadn’t eaten, so it didn’t take much to get him drunk. Within a couple of hours, Luis had not only told this guy about the car, he had given him the license number.”
“Good Lord,” Catherine whispered.
“What time did your brother leave the bar?” Joe asked. “And who left first, Luis or this guy? Did he have a name?”
Carlos lowered his head for several moments. When he raised it his eyes were filled with pain. “I found out later the guy left first, then Luis. I was getting kind of nervous about what my brother was saying— I never thought he should be talking about it in the first place. I told him to shut up but he blew me off. So I left early.” His throat worked, as though he were trying to swallow the guilt.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Catherine said softly.
Carlos shook his head slowly back and forth. “If I had waited for him, he might be alive now.”
She squeezed his arm. “Or you might be dead too.”
“What did the guy look like, Carlos?” Joe asked.
Carlos sighed heavily. “He was a white guy, brown hair a little long, dressed like a construction worker or something, glasses that were tinted brown at the top, so I couldn’t really see what color his eyes were. Goatee.” He ran his fingers up either side of his own goatee and back down.
“Did you give the guy’s description to the police?”
Carlos grimaced and gave a harsh laugh. “The police, yeah, right. They spoke to me and Elena. Period. They didn’t even question the people at the bar. I told them about the stranger and they said there was nothing they could do unless he showed up again.”
“Did he?” Catherine asked.
“No.”
“So what are you doing now?” Joe asked. “Waiting for this guy to show back up at the bar? If he was involved, that’s not going to happen.”
“I described him to Elena, and she drew a sketch of his face. It wasn’t too bad. Not exact, but close enough so we passed copies out all over the neighborhood, in the bars and stuff. We didn’t post them, because we didn’t want to warn the guy, but people were on the lookout for a while. Now?” He shrugged. “Only Elena and I are still looking. The police sure as hell don’t want to know anything.”
Catherine thought about the grandmother she’d met at police headquarters, and her heartbreaking vigil week after week. Carlos stared at the wall, the picture of a man in turmoil. “I should have been there for him, and I wasn’t.”
“You were not responsible for Luis’s death.”
A petite woman with long black hair leaned over the booth behind them. Elena. She came around and stood beside Carlos. As they gazed at one another, tears began to leak from the corners of his eyes.
Joe leaned closer to Catherine and whispered, “Let’s split.”
Catherine stood and Joe followed suit. Joe reached into his pocket for a pen and scribbled a note on the back of his business card, then pushed it back across the table. By the time they had paid the bartender for the drinks, Elena was holding Carlos tightly to her chest.
* * *
Perelli slumped a little lower in the doorway as Rossi and the Morrissey woman walked past him. When the chimes on the door rang, he took a long drag on his cigarette and clicked open his cell phone. A few seconds later someone picked up.
“You’ll never guess who Miss Sexy and Rossi were talking to,” Perelli said. He blew a couple of perfect smoke rings.
“Joe Rossi?”
“Yeah. They paid a visit to Carlos.” He took two long drags in a row and flicked the butt into the gutter. “I got all night. Want me handle it or what?”
“Handle what? You’re just supposed to follow her and tell me what she does. Make her uncomfortable so she wants to go home. That’s it. Don’t fuck this up.”
Perelli frowned. “Okay, it’s your call.” Asshole.
He slipped his cell phone back in his pocket and walked to the small brown Nissan across the street, tracking the couple in his peripheral vision. Keep it low-key, let the fear build. Idiocy. Once behind the driver’s seat, he slid his knife out. He turned it from side to side, enjoying the play of light across its highly polished surfaces. Things would be so much simpler if he were calling the shots. People get in the way, he adds a little smiley face below their chin—what could be easier than that?
Catherine Morrissey was proving tougher to intimidate than he’d expected. His visit the night before had made her bolder, if anything. And surprise, surprise—she didn’t call the cops. But there were plenty of ways to scare the living shit out of her. Plenty of ways. He wouldn’t have to hurt her too badly—just enough to make it fun.
He ran a hand over his cock, picturing her naked and tied beneath him, screaming through her gag. He smiled. Maybe he’d carve his initials in that pretty ass of hers as a forget-me-not.
If it was up to him, she’d have already hauled what was left of that pretty ass back to New Hampshire.
Within a minute the black Honda Accord pulled away from the curb. He slipped the knife back inside his jacket, waited a few seconds and did a U-ee to follow.
Chapter Eighteen
When they were in the car, Catherine said, “What kind of people would be in a presidential motorcade?”
“Other than the police and Secret Service? The president and vice president, their wives, their closest aides.” Joe glanced over at her. “Ned Campbell, possibly.”
She frowned. “There’s no way Ned could have been involved with my sister.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because if he had been, he would be a fool to spend time with me. And Ned doesn’t strike me as a fool.”
Joe shot her a glance as he pulled away from the curb. “And spending time with you would make him a fool how?”
“He knows I’m here to get answers about Blair’s death. If he had killed her, the last thing he’d do is risk slipping up around me.”
Joe was quiet while he maneuvered in traffic. “It could be the perfect cover. Like you said, who would suspect him of involvement in your sister’s murder when he’s squiring you around town?”
“He’s only one of several close aides. There’s absolutely no reason to think it was him.”
“Defending him?” Joe said, trying for a mocking tone. “Sounds serious.”
“My relationship with Ned is my business, not yours.”
A bolt of hot jealousy sliced through him. “Oh, excuse me. I thought we were going into this with open minds. Anyone else you’d like to eliminate from suspicion based on your extensive knowledge of the Washington power players?” When she didn’t answer he pressed on. “Sadler said this case could be the next Watergate. Those were his words. That implies there’s a White House connection.”
“Lots of people use that expression,” she said. “At school some art supplies were missing and everybody called it ‘Watercolorgate.’”
He couldn’t help grinning. “That’s a good one.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“No shit.”
Catherine rubbed her temples. “There’s so much to process. I don’t know what to make of any of it.”
“Let’s go back to my house and figure out where to go from here. Okay?”
She yawned. He bit his tongue, but her silence made him uneasy.
“I’m exhausted, Joe,” she said when they got onto Rock Creek Parkway. “I think I should go back to the apartment and have an early night.”
The pronouncement didn’t surprise him, but he didn’t like it. At this point she was calling the shots, and he’d be damned if he’d beg. “Whatever you want,” h
e said. He felt her gaze on him, but wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of looking at her. Oh, no. He didn’t want her to see his disappointment. Or his hunger for her.
But damn it, he was too wound up to let it go. Instead of pulling up in front of Blair’s apartment house and dropping her off, he drove past and into the alley where a handful of parking spaces lined up against the side of her building. He maneuvered into the furthest spot from the road, which was also the darkest, and turned off the engine. Then he rested his arm across the top of her seat.
“So, if I had taken full advantage of what you were offering last night, would you be talking to me now?”
Her eyes widened. “Where did that come from?”
“You know exactly where it came from,” he said, hearing the edge in his voice and wishing he could keep his cards closer to his vest. He’d never been good at it. “You wanted me to fuck you last night.”
“Joe, I—”
“You wanted me to drag those boxers down your legs.” He leaned closer, smoothed a hand over the back of her head and scooped up a fistful of thick hair. “You wanted my mouth on you.” He tugged her hair over one shoulder and ran his knuckles down the soft skin of her neck, felt her shudder. “And my cock inside you.”
“This is a bad idea,” she said, her voice breathy.
“Bullshit.” He took her mouth in a bruising kiss. Her hands came to his chest as though to shove him away, but he wrapped his arms around her and deepened the kiss, sweeping her mouth with his tongue and running his thumbs over her nipples. She groaned softly, muscles tightening, and then slipped her arms around his neck.
He broke the kiss long enough to say, “Do you have any idea how sexy you are in that dress?” and then slanted his lips over hers again and assaulted her with his tongue. His hand covered her breast and kneaded, making her groan and press herself harder into his palm. Damn it, he wanted the dress off, wanted to feel her skin against his, suck her nipples into his mouth.
She made a protesting sound when he moved his hand off her breast, then drew in a loud breath when he slid it under the short dress to the juncture of her thighs and cupped her. “That’s right,” he whispered as he tugged her panties out of the way and slid his hand against her wet heat.
She arched into his hand. “Joe... Oh God.” She cried out when he slid one finger inside her.
He caught her mouth again and used his tongue to imitate what his finger was doing inside her. His cock throbbed against the zipper of his jeans, wanting to be where his finger was, moving inside her, bringing her closer and closer to coming as his thumb circled her slippery clit. Suddenly she went rigid and let out a long, breathy moan as she spasmed around his finger. He backed off and gazed at the picture she made, her lips red and swollen, hair wild around her flushed face, breasts heaving, legs parted to give him access to the most intimate part of her.
Christ, she was gorgeous. And so passionate.
After her breathing slowed Catherine smoothed her clothes and her hair and Joe walked her around to the front door. Neither of them spoke. A couple of times she started to say something but stopped—probably fighting with herself over inviting him upstairs to finish what they’d started. But in the end she said good-night, accepted a soft kiss on the lips and slipped inside. Alone.
Joe watched her go, hands in his pockets. The chemistry between them was explosive, and it scared her to death. He’d take his time, let her call the shots for the time being until he could build her trust. And then, somehow, he would figure out a way to make her his.
Chapter Nineteen
As soon as Joe opened the door, Catherine’s nose was assaulted by an aroma so delicious she automatically closed her eyes and sniffed the air. He chuckled. She opened her eyes and was confronted by something even more mouthwatering—a big, handsome man grinning down at her, chocolate-brown eyes alight with amusement, wearing a black chef’s apron that said Haut Stuff. Wasn’t that the truth.
“Wait till you taste it,” he said, laying a hand on her upper arm and pulling her gently inside.
Joe had called her that afternoon, casual as could be—as though he hadn’t had his hands and his mouth all over her less than twenty-four hours ago—and suggested they get together for dinner at his house to plan their strategy. They had a lot of ground to cover, he’d said, and she wasn’t going to be here all that long, so they’d better get started.
He took her hand and led her toward the kitchen. Mike and Tiffany were by the stove, Tiffany stirring a big pot with a long wooden spoon while Mike chowed down on a thick slab of Italian bread coated in tomato sauce and sprinkled with cheese. His eyes lit up when he saw her.
“Here, have a bite,” he said, holding his bread out to her. His little hand was greasy from the sauce, and he had an orange mustache around his mouth.
“Oh, Mike, that’s so gross,” Tiffany said. “She won’t want your piece.”
“How do you know?” he said.
“I’ll have a bite.” Catherine bent down so Mike could push the bread into her mouth. It tasted every bit as good as it smelled. “My taste buds just went to heaven,” she said when she’d swallowed it down.
Joe laughed. “It’s pretty good over linguine, too.”
Catherine moved closer to the pot. Thick red liquid bubbled up like hot lava, the bubbles popping out and sticking to the stove. The front of Mike’s yellow Nike T-shirt had red globs all over it, and another one popped out and hit his chest.
Joe was already reaching to lower the heat. “You have to stir it a little more often, Tiff. And leave it real low.”
“It stopped bubbling,” she said. “I figured it would cook faster if I turned up the heat.”
“It has to simmer so the flavors have a chance to blend together. If you cook it too high, it’ll burn.”
Catherine smiled. “Your dad taught you how to cook.”
Joe nodded, and his smile said he was pleased that she had remembered. She made a mental note to watch that. “And this sauce is an old family recipe, imported from Naples by the Rosavigliaccis who settled originally in New York—where else?”
“That was your family’s real name?”
Joe nodded. “Yeah, they changed it when they got here. Too long, too Italian, I guess. Rossi’s easier on the tongue.”
“I like that other one,” Mike said. “Rosiewigglioni.”
“Wrong!” Tiffany said. “It’s Rosta...vicliaccioni.” She turned to Joe with a smug expression, confident she had it right.
“Close enough,” Joe said with a wink at Catherine. “How about a beer or some wine? Same Pinot Grigio as last time?”
Catherine winced at the reference to the first time she had been in this kitchen. “Sounds great.”
While Joe opened and poured the wine, she chatted with the kids, feeling surprisingly comfortable. She was welcome here and a thousand times more relaxed than when she’d spent the evening with three of the most important people on the planet.
Dinner was a somewhat chaotic, messy affair but high on entertainment value. Both Joe and Mike tucked dishtowels into the neck of their shirts, and from the damage done over the course of the meal it had obviously been a wise precaution. They sucked up the linguine with great enthusiasm and speed. Tiffany seemed to feel it was her duty to point out how messy and immature they were being, which, of course, spurred them to even greater speed and more laughter.
Catherine enjoyed the mood at the table as much as the food. Throughout, Joe kept refilling her wineglass and grabbing new beers for himself. She tried to take it slow and drink as much water as wine, but she was buzzed by the time everybody had finished eating.
Joe was the first to stand and started grabbing plates off the table. Catherine grasped his wrist when he reached for hers and found herself gazing up into warm brown eyes full of humor...and heat. Being so close
to him, touching him, made her long to finish what they’d started last night in the car. That was the second time he’d made her come without expecting anything in return. He knew she was afraid of what it would mean if they became lovers, and he wasn’t pushing it, but if they kept going down this road it was only a matter of time before they ended up in bed together. Too bad she wasn’t the type to enjoy the sex and let it go at that.
She moved her hand from his wrist to her plate and rose. “Let me. The cook shouldn’t clean.”
“The rule around here is the guest doesn’t clean.”
“That’s a stupid rule,” Mike said.
“I agree.” Catherine snatched up her fork and knife and moved around the table, collecting the other plates and silverware.
“I’ll help too,” Tiffany said and grabbed the salad bowl.
Catherine started to carry the plates to the sink but stopped when she got a good look at the kitchen. Pots and pans clogged the sink, garlic peels lay in curls on the floor, salad greens coated with dressing were smeared across the counter, razor-sharp tops stuck up from the empty cans of tomatoes and paste. And then there was the stove, with tomato sauce splattered all over the surface and burner plates.
She laid the stack of plates back on the table. “This is going to take a while. Why don’t you guys go watch TV or something and let me work on it.” When Joe started to protest she held up her hand. “I don’t mind at all, and I’ll be a lot more efficient about getting it done if I do it myself. Okay?”
Mike grabbed Joe’s hand with both of his and started tugging him out of the kitchen. “She’s wants do it, Joe, let’s go.”
“Are you sure?” Joe’s expression was somewhere between guilty and grateful. “I don’t feel right about you doing all the work.”
“I insist. It’ll be quicker this way. When I’m done we can talk about our plan.”
“What plan?” Mike asked.
“Our plan to explore the solar system,” Joe said. “Catherine and I are secretly astronauts, and—”
