by Kylie Brant
“We need to talk to him about the shooting, since he was there, too,” Madeline said. “He isn’t in any trouble-we just have some routine questions to ask.”
One snorted at this. “Dirk ain’t afraid of no cops,” he said derisively. The mood of the group seemed to take a menacing turn. The once cocky, bantering tone was absent now, each of the members’ faces wearing the same sullen, closed mask.
“Then he should be willing to talk to us,” Madeline inserted smoothly. “Where can we find him?”
There was another long silence before one muttered, “If he wants to talk, he’ll find you.”
“Tell him we’ll be at the Blue Pelican the rest of the afternoon,” Cruz said, naming a bar in the neighborhood. “He can find us there.”
One of the boys shrugged. “Don’t even know if we’ll see him.”
“Make a point of it,” Madeline advised. “Because if he doesn’t talk to us today, we’ll have to go looking for him. And if we do go looking for him, we’ll bring his parole officer with us.”
A few of the young men glanced at one another, and then away. No one responded, but Madeline and Cruz, sure the message would be delivered, walked back to the car.
“Tough lady,” Cruz remarked as they drove away.
“When I have to be.”
“Need I ask how you knew he was on parole?”
“The file,” she answered shortly, and Cruz shook his head in amazement. He had given her an hour to read two files, both of which had been at least two inches thick. He wondered if she’d committed the whole thing to memory, or just the highlights. “He served two years for breaking and entering,” he tried, testing her on some of the details.
Her eyes never left the road. “He served thirty-three months for aggravated assault, and the only reason he’s out is because some ACLU lawyer managed to convince a parole board that he should never have been tried as an adult in the first place.”
Madeline listened to his directions to the Blue Pelican, and drove silently. She was aware of what he’d been doing just then, and it neither angered nor amused her. She was too used to it to give it much attention. She’d been born with an uncannily accurate memory, and she accepted it the way others accepted their hair or eye color. She’d learned to trust it, then rely on it as she grew older. And she blessed it now, because she knew she would be needing it more than ever. As her father had pointed out, her instincts, at least when it came to men, had not proven to be the best. The fiasco with Dennis Belding had come very close to ending her career, all because she had trusted the wrong man. The experience, though, had taught her a valuable lesson. Instincts could be faulty, clouded by emotion, but her memory never was. And she had the remarkable ability to remember every bit of the hell she had gone through the last time she had misjudged a man. It would never be allowed to happen again.
Of course, she added silently, she would be greatly aided in that vow if she could refrain from kissing Cruz Martinez. Her palms still moistened when she remembered the look of intent his face had worn as it had neared hers. The lingering amusement on it had been wiped away, to be replaced with the most compelling expression of masculine desire that she’d ever witnessed. Desire that she was sure had been reflected on her own face.
Even if she wasn’t working with him, even if she wasn’t investigating him, Cruz was not a man she would ever consider getting involved with. He was glib and oh-so-charming. And he was too damn gorgeous by half. With those perfect features and well-honed body, he’d be right at home on a Hollywood screen set, and she’d bet a month’s pay that he had as many adoring fans as any movie star. A woman would have to be crazy to fall prey to that easygoing manner and bone-melting grin. He was the most dangerous of men; he radiated a vibrant sexuality that would normally frighten some women, even as it drew them. But he could be so easy to talk to, so fascinating with the combination of those blatantly bedroom eyes and aw-shucks manner, that even the most sensible women might be tempted to cast caution aside.
Luckily she had more than her share of good sense. And up against the temptation of Cruz Martinez, she was going to need every bit of it.
“It’s right here,” Cruz said, interrupting her thoughts.
“Looks like a real dive.” She wasn’t especially surprised, but she wasn’t looking forward to spending the next few hours in such an establishment.
“Don’t worry,” he teased as they parked in the small rutted lot next to the bar and got out of the car. “I’ll protect you.”
She rolled her eyes at his remark and he laughed. When they entered the place, she wrinkled her nose at the smell. The aromas of stale beer and unwashed bodies hung in the air. It was surprisingly full for midafternoon, but from the looks of the disreputable occupants, it wasn’t as if they had jobs to go to. It was more likely that any business these people conducted was done right here in the bar. Or out of the trunks of their cars.
There were a few tables scattered about, but they were all taken. Madeline followed Cruz to a booth in the back, where they would have a view of anyone entering through the front or rear door. He stood while she scooted in one side, but she looked up, openmouthed, when he slid in after her.
“There’s plenty of room over there,” she said pointedly, indicating the other side of the booth.
“I’d prefer to keep my back to the wall in a place like this, and Cantoney isn’t going to join us if it means he has to sit next to either of us. He’s too wary for that.”
Though his explanation sounded logical, she still looked at him suspiciously. The length of the afternoon seemed much longer now that she knew she was going to spend it with him pressed against her side like this. “Well, quit crowding me,” she ordered shortly. His big body seemed to take up much more than its share of the small seat, even when she shrank into the corner.
He paid no attention to her, his eyes scanning the bar carefully. His lack of awareness of her made her relax a bit, even as it made her want to kick him. It was impossible for her to feign a similar unawareness of him. He was so close that his muscled arms brushed hers. Though he was wearing a long- sleeved shirt, again roiled up to just below the elbows, she could recall in detail what those arms looked like bare, and mentally groaned. This was not her idea of how to spend a productive afternoon. Or of how to remain immune to this man’s charm.
Cruz relaxed imperceptibly when he satisfied himself that Cantoney wasn’t there. He recognized a few of the customers, and either they hadn’t seen him or they were doing their best to pretend they hadn’t. He’d rousted a few of them on more than one occasion, and he’d busted two of the men at the bar for petty theft. He didn’t know if this was an establishment that Cantoney usually frequented, but it was on turf claimed by the Lords. And it was exactly the kind of place that a two-bit punk like Dirk would feel at home in.
He shifted his weight to a more comfortable position, aware for the first time just how close he was to Madeline. He moved again, uneasily. This might not prove to be the brightest plan he’d ever had. Passing the next few hours pressed up against Madeline Casey’s slender body might be just enough to turn him into a eunuch. Because if the agony didn’t do the job, he was sure she’d be glad to, if he lifted one finger in her direction.
Not that he had any intention of doing that. He was the first to admit that he had an eye for attractive women, but it was plain to see that this one had Hands Off written all over her. And he had done his best in the short time they’d been working together to put her at ease, to show her that she had nothing to fear from him.
Well, okay, he’d almost made a little slip this afternoon. He frowned slightly. He had come damn close to kissing Madeline then, and finding out at last if those delectably full lips were as soft as they looked. He knew exactly what had made him almost abandon his careful distance from her. She’d been too darn inviting, standing there savoring that damn hot dog, smug because he was having to eat one, too. She’d looked more approachable than he’d ever seen her, and it
hadn’t taken long for their bantering to turn to awareness. At least, it hadn’t taken long for him, and her Hands Off sign hadn’t been anywhere in sight.
A slovenly-looking waitress meandered over to take their order. “What can I get for ya, big guy?” she asked with a wink, her eyes never touching Madeline.
“Two Coors Lite bottles,” he said shortly. Madeline raised her eyebrows at him and he waited for the waitress to leave to forestall her argument “We don’t have to drink them, but this isn’t exactly the kind of place where we can order cups of coffee.”
The woman came back with two lukewarm beers and set them down. “That’ll be eight bucks, handsome,” she cooed. She placed both elbows on the table and leaned toward Cruz, affording him a revealing view of her ample breasts. To Madeline’s amazement he looked distinctly uncomfortable at the attention, a dull red stain reaching his cheekbones as he pulled the bills out of his pocket. The waitress took her time collecting the money and swayed slowly back to the bar.
“Don’t worry, handsome,” Madeline couldn’t help gibing, “I’ll protect you.”
He grinned at her use of his earlier words. “Ah, subtlety doesn’t seem to be her strong suit, does it?”
“I doubt she unbuttoned half her blouse to show her ‘subtlety’ off to advantage,” Madeline agreed dryly.
“Did she? I didn’t notice.”
Madeline snorted inelegantly. “And birds don’t fly.”
He affected a wounded expression. “Somewhere along the line you’ve gotten the wrong impression of me. I wouldn’t lie to you. I still go to confession every Saturday.”
“I’ll bet that’s a real trip for some poor unsuspecting priest. He probably needs a stiff drink afterward to recover.”
“Naw, I lead a very quiet life.”
Somehow she doubted that. Everything about Cruz Martinez pointed to just the opposite. The attitude of the waitress was probably identical to the way most women behaved around him. Throwing themselves at his feet, willing to take a number for their turn with him. Madeline had no illusions about how far some women would go to catch the eye of a man who looked like him. Luckily she had never been partial to tall, dark and perfect types herself.
“What has had you so busy the last couple of weeks that you missed the family dinners?” What the heck. She might as well do some digging as long as they seemed to be stuck here for a while.
“This and that,” he said vaguely.
Her interest immediately sharpened. This was the first sign of reticence he’d ever exhibited. She slanted a glance at him. He didn’t appear to be trying to avoid the question. He seemed preoccupied, as he had when they’d first come in. His eyes were once again searching the room.
“Is your mother likely to accept ‘this and that’ as a good enough reason to miss going home?”
He finally looked at her, amusement apparent on his face. “Afraid for my safety? I can assure you it’s been a while since she’s taken the wooden spoon to me.”
She subsided. He obviously wasn’t going to tell her what he’d been busy with, and if she pressed he might get the wrong idea about her curiosity, might think she wanted to know out of a more personal interest. The glint in his eye told her he was already thinking exactly that, and it was time to put that misconception to rest. “Just making conversation. Looks like we’re in for a long, boring afternoon waiting for Cantoney.”
Cruz silently disagreed. Boring was one word that could never be applied to the feeling he got sitting this close to her. It wasn’t the same as in the car. He didn’t have to touch her then. He shifted again. Maybe she had the right idea, after all. Perhaps he should engage in some very idle conversation to distract his mind, and a few other body parts, from thinking about the temptation sitting so close.
“How about you? What do you do on the weekends?”
She shrugged. “Work out at the gym. Go to the shooting range. Do the laundry. Clean my apartment.”
“And?” His eyes were lit with lazy interest. She couldn’t fool him. A woman who looked like her had to have an active social life. He didn’t know why he found the thought of that so intriguing, but he did. As long as he didn’t dwell too long on what she and her dates did once they got back to her place. That thought brought an unfamiliar knot to his gut.
“And what? I’m not Catholic, so I don’t have to spend my Saturdays at confession. Not that I’d need to, anyway,” she informed him smugly.
“Is that right? What are you telling me, that your life-style is as perfect as your memory?”
“No, I’m saying that my life-style is dull. Boring compared to yours, I’m sure. It doesn’t take a whole lot to keep me happy.” When he chuckled at this, she lifted her eyebrow. “You don’t agree?”
“That’s not the way I’ve got you pegged, no,” he answered, still chuckling. “You definitely strike me as high maintenance.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. She was going to regret this. She absolutely did not want to hear his explanation of his words. “And just what, may I ask, is that supposed to mean?”
At her uncomprehending look, he explained cheerfully. “It’s simple. You’re the kind of woman who has certain standards. Fairly high standards. They apply to your home, what you drive, who you date and what you do in your free time. ‘Regimented’ might describe you, but definitely not ‘boring.’”
“Regimented?” Her eyes spit green sparks at him and he leaned back to enjoy the fireworks. He’d suspected all along that Madeline Casey had a temper to match that flaming hair and he didn’t want to miss a moment of it. “What the heck would you know about being regimented?”
“It’s not an insult,” he assured her. “Just an observation. Don’t worry I’m sure some men find that quality attractive. My grandma used to say that every pot will find its lid.”
“What a quaint saying. I should needlepoint that,” she said sarcastically, still smarting from his words. Regimented, she fumed. Her life might be orderly, she might value organization, but the word he’d used was distinctly unflattering. It implied that she was rigidly controlled, and though that was the aura she tried to project professionally, it didn’t sound very attractive.
“At the risk of sounding like a cliché, you’re beautiful when you’re angry.” His eyes were crinkled with amusement.
“And you’re annoying when you’re stupid,” she returned, irritated. What did he know about her? Or about anything? So she prized order in her life. After it had been turned into such shambles a few years ago, was that so wrong? So she was organized. That certainly didn’t used to be considered a fault. And yes, maybe she was cautious. She’d bet he knew nothing about that, not in his personal life, anyway. She was quite sure that when it came to the opposite sex, he jumped in with both feet, not to mention other body parts. She glared at him again, and the amused look on his face made her want to smack him, for she was suddenly certain that he’d done this on purpose. He’d baited her into flaring up. The big jerk.
“I’ll bet you were the kind of brother who delighted in starting fights among your siblings and then left the room when you heard your mother coming.”
He had to smile at how close her remark came to the observation Michele McLain had made the last time he’d visited there. “Are you implying that I’m a tease?” he asked with mock affront.
“That’s exactly what I’m implying.”
“Then I’d have to disagree. That’s not being a tease. A tease is-” he turned to look more fully at her, and stopped when he took in the picture she made. Temper had flared color to her face and brightened the hue of her eyes. “To tease is to taunt. Tantalize. To hold something irresistible just out of reach.” His voice deepened. He was no longer responding to her comment. “Teasing is prolonging anticipation, sometimes to an almost unbearable point.”
She swallowed hard, his tone as much as his words affecting her. He could have been referring to her remark, but he wasn’t. The timbre of his voice was too suggestive, the words too ri
fe with innuendo. She knew what he was doing but she was helpless to control her response to it. They looked at each other for a long moment, and what she saw in his face made her stomach clutch reflexively. Bad idea, her usually reasonable voice screeched inside her. Don’t talk to him, don’t argue with him, don’t listen to him and for heaven’s sake, quit looking at him. Because there was something about the way he was gazing at her mouth that gave new meaning to the word tease. She tore her eyes away with a difficulty that felt almost physical and concentrated for the rest of the afternoon on the comings and goings in the bar. And on shredding her napkin into small bits.
Cruz, too, fell silent. Finally he rose. “It’s after five. Let’s get out of here.”
The sun was still shining brightly when they left the bar, and Madeline squinted in its glare. They strode quickly toward the car, each in a hurry to get back to headquarters, to put the tension of the afternoon behind them. They slowed simultaneously, noticing the figure leaning against their car at the same time.
“Cantoney,” Cruz noted under his breath, and Madeline nodded. There hadn’t been a picture of the man in the files she’d read, but she could easily believe that this was the man described in one report. Studying him, she had no difficulty believing that he’d assaulted another with a tire iron for the indiscretion of talking to Cantoney’s girlfriend. He was about her own height, lean, with skin so fair it looked as if the sun had forgotten him. He would have appeared almost harmless if it hadn’t been for his eyes. They were a pale blue, and absolutely devoid of emotion. When they flicked over her, Madeline could feel a physical chill. He appeared older than the members of the gang he led. She didn’t doubt for a moment that he had orchestrated the numerous criminal activities that the Lords were suspected of.
“I heard you were looking for me.”
They finished their approach toward him. “I’ve been looking for you since Ramsey got shot,” Cruz said. “Where have you been?”
