Envy fa-3

by J. R. Ward

  Which told him that chances were good there weren’t a whole lot of fuzzy pajamas and fluffy bathrobes in those damn bags.

  “Uh . . . backseat,” he muttered, “yeah . . .”

  “They were having a sale,” she said as he shut the trunk.

  He was getting hard again. Right now. Shit.

  After the groceries were in the car, the pair of them got in their respective seats and she started the engine. The seat belt cut into his erection, but he figured the damn thing deserved the pinch. He had no business fantasizing about a fashion show.

  The fine Officer Reilly was into that stuff?

  Man, he needed a smoke—

  “Shit,” he said.

  “What?”

  “We have to go to your place to do it.” With a curse, he amended, “Dinner, I mean. Do dinner at your place—I don’t have any pans.”

  As they stopped at the light that led out of the parking lot, she glanced over . . . and started to laugh. Before he knew it, he was smiling.

  “You don’t know how to cook anything, do you,” she said.

  “I’ll be lucky if I can get the box of tacos open.” He put up his forefinger. “But I’d still like to make you dinner, if you’re game.”

  Shaking her head, she smiled. “Okay, but can you do me a favor?”

  “Name it.”

  “Can you forget what you saw in my trunk?”

  His eyes drifted to her mouth and then went farther down to the pale column of her throat and . . . “I’m sorry,” he said darkly. “That I can’t do.”

  She inhaled on a sharp suck, as if everything he was thinking was showing in his face.

  “Fuck,” he breathed. “I mean, yeah, of course. Consider it done. Totally forgotten.”

  A loud honk sounded behind them, and she jumped before hitting the gas.

  Well, this was going smoothly. Maybe he’d top off the night by burning her frickin’ house down.

  CHAPTER 10

  During his years as a black ops solider, Jim had learned that good intel was mission critical in any assignment. Of course, back when he’d been working for Matthias the Fucker, his job had been killing people, and that was not the situation with his new boss or his current targets. But a lot of the principles were the same, however.

  And the stakes were even higher.

  Sitting on his bed in the Marriott, with his Dell propped on his thighs, the Caldwell Courier Journal’s Web site was front and center on the screen, and the headache he had was not from the glare.

  His work was cut out for him. Assuming Devina hadn’t lied about the soul.

  Last night Thomas DelVecchio Jr. had been in the woods with a guy who he’d been investigating—business as usual for a homicide detective, right? Wrong. The wrench in the works was the fact that David Kroner, believed to be a serial killer, had been driven back to town in the business end of an ambulance. Where he’d been all but tomato sauce.

  And that was just the start of the fun and games. After spending nearly two hours combing the Net, Jim knew enough to fill a book about DelVecchio . . . and the guy’s dad.

  None of it was good news.

  “Damn, Dog,” he muttered.

  Dog let out a little chuff and put his paw on Jim’s forearm, as if offering support.

  The question was, where was the crossroads with DelVecchio? Had it been in those woods last night?

  No, because then Jim would have lost before they’d gotten started, and he had to imagine that was outside the scope of the rules. Didn’t mean Devina couldn’t have given that a shot, though.

  And on that note. “Where are you, bitch . . .”

  The demon was somewhere in all this, working behind the scenes, trying to pull strings so that DelVecchio the younger would get in deep with her.

  The route could be through the father. Retyping the guy’s name into Google, Jim went on another surf of the Web, and what he found made him question whether humanity was worth saving: Web site after Web site of hero worship, blogs on the bastard—oh, look, role-playing based on his killings. Artwork for sale on eBay. Autographs.

  The guy was his own cottage industry—but it wasn’t going to last, apparently. He was due a lights-out in Connecticut very, very soon.

  Then again, maybe he’d live forever in infamy: There were round-the-clock vigils going on outside the prison. No doubt that collection of protesters wouldn’t stop the execution, but they were an indication that the bastard might be even more of a celebrity once he was in the ground.

  According to the CCJ archives, the elder DelVecchio had done most of his killings in New York and Massachusetts, and the first of the AP reports on the victims dated all the way back to the mid-nineties, when an initial body had been found in . . . Caldwell, New York. It had taken about three years of seemingly random butchering for the authorities to kick in that they had a serial killer on their hands. Part of the lag was the fact that he had left bodies in multiple states and the disparate investigations had been carried out with varying degrees of competency by local police. But the other thing was, at least in the beginning, DelVecchio had made it his business to hide the remains well—and creatively.

  The dots had been connected, however, and then it had become a race to catch whoever the killer was. The ass slapper was that DelVecchio had been in the public eye the whole time, a dealer of antiquities—and not just trinkets or fakes. He’d been at the top of the heap with that one, importing statuary and artifacts and tablets from Egypt and the Middle East.

  Handsome motherfucker. Even had an article in Vanity Fair on him—which went into some detail. Apparently in between the trips overseas, and the parties at the Met, DelVecchio Sr. had managed to get some woman pregnant. The son had been born on the father’s birthday twenty-nine years ago, but there had been no family life to speak of. No other children.

  Although there had been contact of a sort: Turned out the murder of that woman had been the key to DelVecchio’s eventual capture, the first link that had brought the chain he’d been making together. The rest was history, so to speak.

  “I-inn-r?”

  Jim looked up over the laptop. Standing in the open connector, Adrian had a pizza box between his mitts and half of a six-pack of beer hanging from his teeth.

  “Oh, yeah. Thanks, man.”

  Eddie came in behind the guy with a second box. “He got his with everything—and the damn bait.”

  Ad parked it on the bed and put the beers down. “They’re called anchovies, fool.”

  The “whatever” went unsaid between the pair of them. Jim fed Dog first, giving the little guy some crust of the non-Adrian pie. Going by his stubby tail, the grub was more than good enough.

  “So how do we know Devina didn’t lie to you?” Adrian said, before he bent a slice in half and put the pointy part in his mouth.

  “This hot mess is right up our alley.” He switched over to the article about the execution and turned the laptop around. “Meet the guy’s dad. And wait, there’s more.”

  As they ate, he showed them some of the sites and capped it off with the write-up online about Junior’s little trip into the woods with the serial killer. While his wingmen read, there was the appropriate amount of fuckin’ hells, which was satisfying.

  He finished his third slice. “We need to find out what happened in those woods last night.”

  “Article says DelVecchio has no memory.”

  Jim glanced over at Eddie, a.k.a. teacher of tricks. “That’s where you come in. I want into that guy’s mind, and you need to tell me how to do it.”

  Ad shrugged. “Personally, I’d just use a hacksaw, but—”

  “There are potential consequences and side effects,” Eddie said carefully.

  “Like what?”

  “Well, worst case . . . he could end up like Adrian.”

  “Hey—”

  Jim cut the angel in question off. “Tone-deaf. Needle freak.”

  “Sex fiend,” Eddie added.

  “Tha
t would be ‘god.’ ” Ad cracked open a Bud. “And I keep telling you people, I’m not tone-deaf.”

  “We’ve been through this before.” Eddie wiped his mouth. “If you can’t hear how off-key you are, how would you know?”

  “I’m not off-key.”

  “Yeah, you are,” Jim and Eddie said together.

  Before this argument got out of hand, Jim got serious with Eddie. “So tell me what I need to know.”

  “You’re going to have to explain what you’re looking for first.”

  Jim took a long pull from his can of beer. “I want to know where Devina is in all this. What her angle’s been and which way she’s likely to take shit. That’s what I’m after.”

  And given what was doing with the father? He had his suspicions already.

  Naturally, Veck had to see what was in the trunk, Reilly thought as she pulled into her driveway.

  The universe just couldn’t pass up an opportunity like that to get her a good one.

  While her garage door went up, she glanced over at her partner. “Let me guess . . . you like to carry the groceries, as well as pay for them.”

  “Yeah, I do.” He looked across the seats. “Like I said, I’m old-fashioned. But if you want to do the duty, I’ll step back.”

  And that was why she didn’t have a problem with him.

  Besides, he could handle the food while she grabbed the VS in the trunk: However embarrassed she was, she wasn’t going to leave that stuff behind. There was no pretending the disclosure hadn’t been made, but more important, there was no reason to hide. She was a grown-ass woman and she could buy herself—

  As the voice in her head grew more strident and defensive, she wondered who exactly she was talking to.

  Probably her father.

  Cutting off the ridiculous rant, she parked the car. While Veck got out and grabbed the Hannaford bags, she headed around the butt of the sedan, popping the trunk and keeping her chin up as she fisted all of her lacy-and-lovely and led the way into her kitchen.

  “Wow,” he said looking at the walls. And the drapes. And the counters.

  “I should have warned you.”

  The good news about the rooster-themed nightmare of a kitchen was that it usually made people stop and look around, so she had the chance to tuck her bags around the corner, out of sight.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen . . .”

  With a nod, she was grateful he didn’t finish that one, although it wasn’t like he had to. “. . . so many cocks in one place” had been let fly with reliable, if cringing, frequency.

  “The little old lady who lived here before liked them.” Oh, God, that sounded awful. “Ever since I moved in here two years ago, I’ve been meaning to get out a razor blade and start picking at the corners. But there’s always some kind of work that keeps me preoccupied.”

  Although seeing it from his eyes made her wish she’d focused a little more. The wallpaper’s pattern had three alarmingly exaggerated roosters in different poses, like they were bodybuilders competing for a trophy. Color scheme was brown, red, and cream, with green tufts of grass beneath their tripart feet. And somehow, even though the stuff had been on the walls for a good twenty years, it had retained an eye-popping vividness.

  “Is it me or do their eyes follow you?” Veck asked as he put the bags on the counter.

  “No, they’re watching you, all right. Done wonders for my diet—I feel like I’m eating with an audience, and I haven’t had chicken in here since last May.”

  “This is like The Birds.”

  “Except farm-themed. I know.” As she went over and opened the cupboard under the stovetop, she said, “The fact that I’m getting a little used to it scares me—like maybe they’ve hypnotized me? By the way, pans are down here. Bowls under there and knives in the drawers by the dishwasher.”

  “Thanks.”

  As he took off his coat, his big shoulders rolled in a way that should have been only about the de-clothing, but somehow got morphed in her mind into something naked and panting.

  Time for a distraction, she thought as he started to unpack.

  “Hey, why don’t I print out the case file while you get started with the food?” she said.

  “That’d be great.”

  “It may take a little while. My printer’s ancient.”

  “We’ve got the time.”

  Evidently: Going by the way he was concentrating on the chips bag, he was about to perform brain surgery with the help of her microwave. And okay, wow. The cool, impassive, handsome-as-hell routine was sexy, but this consternation made him approachable. Well, that and the way he’d opened up about the dating thing. She’d never once considered the groupie angle—but then, even good-looking people could be pursued for the wrong reasons, couldn’t they.

  In her office down the hall, she logged into the CPD database, fired up the report, and stood by the printer, ready to perform the Heimlich when the thing got jammed—which it did. Twice.

  The first hint that all wasn’t well at the other end of the house was the unmistakable nose-wrinkling aroma of burning meat. Second was an explosion of cursing. Which kept up until she headed back with the copies.

  Lot of F-bombs.

  And then the smoke detector went off.

  Holy smokes was right. Whatever was in the pan on the stove—the hamburger meat, most likely, but with Veck, maybe it was the nachos—needed a fire hose. But he was on it, heading for the sink with the mess, putting it in there, and not turning the water on yet. And he was instantly over at the screaming unit on the ceiling, fanning the detector with a dish towel without having to get up on his tiptoes.

  “I think one of the roosters jacked up the heat,” he shouted.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  She hid a smile as she put the papers on the table and got a gander at what he’d laid out on a plate: Shreds of orange cheese had bonded at the molecular level with the layer of Santitas.

  Only one thing to do now, she thought.

  Heading for the phone, she said, “What do you like on your pizza, oh, mighty fanner.”

  “Pepperoni and sausage.”

  “Good call.”

  As she dialed up the local joint, she glanced over. The bottom of his shirt had ridden up, and she got a clear flash of the black waistband of his Calvins . . . as well as a stretch of taut skin that had that dark line running down from his belly button.

  It took no time at all for her brain to segue back to the bathroom scene from the night before. One instant and she was there, seeing his body naked—

  “Oh, yeah, hi.” She turned away quickly. “This’ll be for delivery. Yup, that’s me. Large pepperoni and sausage. Yup. No, no drinks . . . No, I don’t want a second pizza for free. . . .No, no wings . . . No, thanks, we don’t need—No cinnamon wedges, either.” For God’s sake, it took longer to shut them down about the “deals” than for them to masurprisex, and drive out the damn pizza. “Great, thanks.”

  Hanging up, she squared her shoulders and pivoted around again—

  Veck was standing right behind her, his lids at half-mast, his body so much larger that it appeared when he was five feet away from her.

  She didn’t move. Neither did he.

  “Do you believe confession is good for the soul?” he said darkly.

  “Yes . . .”

  “Then I have something I’d better tell you.”

  Oh, God, this was why they told you not to mix business and pleasure: As their eyes met, she was not thinking about the case. She was thinking she might have to do a little admitting of her own.

  I saw you naked last night and you’re beautiful.

  “What,” she breathed.

  I want you even though I shouldn’t.

  Swallowing hard, she said, “Tell me . . .”

  CHAPTER 11

  Veck knew he shouldn’t answer his partner, and he sure as hell shouldn’t have come around to stand this close to her. The right move would have been to start clean
ing up the mess he’d made with the food—instead of creating another one.

  Except he’d seen her staring at his body, and the expression on her face had been a hard, driving hunger. Surprising? Yes. Satisfying? Could be if they followed up on it.

  The trouble was, that was not the kind of thing you could tidy up with soap and hot water.

  “What?” she whispered.

  “I want to . . .” The word was so crass that he kept it to himself.

  “Say it.”

  He leaned in and put his lips by her ear. “You know exactly what I want.”

  “And I want you to say it.”

  “You sure about that. It ain’t nothing nice.”

  Before he could retreat, she reached out and put her hands on his hips. Her touch was light as a shadow falling across his body, but he felt the burn all through him. And one thing was certain, if she drew him to her? She was going to know exactly what was on his mind.

  The hold on him tightened. “Tell me.”

  His voice dropped to a growl: “I want to fuck you.”

  As she moaned a little, he kept going. “I want you naked. Under me. And I want to be inside you.” He dipped down and ran his mouth over her neck. “But I know you specialize in conflicts of interest, so you are damn familiar with all the reasons this is a bad idea.”

  Cue her backing away. Or him stepping off.

  Neither of them moved.

  Shit, his body was teetering on out of control, his erection pounding to get free and do what it did best. Which meant that if they were going to do the right thing here, the strength had to come from her.

  “Slap me,” he groaned. “Push me away . . . for God’s sake, lock yourself in the bathroom or something. Because if you don’t, I’m going to—”

  “Kiss me.”

  God, the tone she used: That was a command, right there. And who was he to disobey an order? Especially from a superior?

  Veck reached out and wrapped an arm around her waist. With a hard, impatient pull, he yanked her against his body. Next move was to take out the tie in her hair and throw it on the ground.

  Man, she was edible with that stuff not pulled back, the red weight down around her shoulders, looking like it was more than ready to have a man’s hands in it.