Just One Look

by Mary McBride

  “You don’t think it’s necessary,” he repeated a bit belligerently.

  “No, I don’t.” She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms for emphasis. “And if you’re honest, I think you’d have to agree that you’ve become a little obsessive about the Ripper.”

  “Obsessive?” The word nearly choked him. “Well, you’d know about that, I guess,” he snarled.

  Sara sighed, dropping her gaze to the gym bag. “I just think it’s time for you to go. And, anyway, I just really want to be alone. Truly alone. You know?”

  He looked bewildered for a second, but only for a second before his eyes took on a gunmetal cast and a little muscle jerked in his cheek. For a moment Sara thought he was angry, so angry that he was going to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled like loose change. But he didn’t. He merely shrugged, and then his scowl reversed itself to one of those lethal grins.

  “Hey, no big deal. You’re entitled,” he said. “And you’re absolutely right, Campbell. Our guy probably has taken a powder, otherwise he would’ve made some kind of move after that newspaper thing. Right?”

  “I’m sure of it,” Sara said, nodding.

  “Yeah. Damn straight.” He dropped the gym bag in order to jab his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, then he picked the bag up. “Well, you’ve got all my numbers, right? Precinct? Pager? Home?”

  She nodded again.

  “It wouldn’t take me more than a few minutes to get here. If anything happened, I mean. Which it won’t.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I wouldn’t go, babe, unless I thought so.” He juggled the canvas bag for an awkward moment, then lifted a hand to her face. The tip of his thumb trailed down her cheek while his eyes fastened on hers. “You let me know when you’ve had enough of alone, huh?”

  Now, Sara screamed inside. Oh, God, why was she kicking him out when all she wanted was for him to stay? And why did he have to be so damned agreeable all of a sudden? Why did he seem so blessedly relieved to be going? Where was the Ripper now that she needed him?

  “Sure,” she said, trying to sound breezy and brave in spite of her self-inflicted wound. “I’ll give you a call.”

  “Okay.” He leaned forward, kissed the tip of her nose, then walked out the door without looking back.

  And he didn’t even caution her to lock up after he was gone. He was just gone.

  Joe went home to shower and change after he was summarily dispatched from the big house on Westbury Boulevard. Home! What a joke. The place looked worse than ever. He’d been in shelters down on Russell Avenue that didn’t smell half as bad. It didn’t matter all that much, though, since he was going to be living in his car for the foreseeable future.

  He stood in the shower, head bent under a hard, pummeling spray, until the hot water ran out and a torrent of ice cubes forced him out of the mildewy stall. He nearly rubbed off a layer of skin when he toweled off, muttering into the steamed-up mirror over the sink all the while.

  Obsessive. He was just doing his job, dammit. Or had been trying to do it until Sara had kicked him out all of a sudden. Here’s your hat, Decker. Hit the street. I vant to be alone. He swore at his foggy reflection in the mirror.

  He’d left her alone, hadn’t he? He hadn’t so much as touched her in days, and he had the raw nerves and the constant ache in his groin to prove it. That’s what he got for mixing business with pleasure, he told himself. The booby prize for getting involved with a nutcase who’d let him into her cozy little world for a while, just long enough to make him want to stay forever, and then dismissed him. Just like that He snapped his fingers, dropped the damp towel on the floor and went in search of a clean pair of jeans and a shirt with a socially acceptable amount of wrinkles.

  His quest was a failure, apparently, because the first thing Maggie said to him twenty minutes later when he stalked to her desk in the squad room was, “Been sleeping in your clothes, Decker?”

  He didn’t even dignify her question with an answer. “Where is everybody?” he asked, slinging himself into a chair at an unoccupied desk.

  “Well, let’s see. Hammerman’s out sick with the flu. The Geriatric Squad is checking out that new restaurant on Culpepper Street. Hmm.” She tapped a pencil against her pursed lips. “Oh. And Cobble’s getting a haircut prior to his press conference at five.”

  “Figures,” Joe snarled.

  “Yeah. Good thing the bad guys are slacking off this week, huh?” She grinned. “And speaking of bad guys, you see any signs of the Ripper over on Westbury?”

  He shook his head. “Not a thing. It just doesn’t figure, Mag. It’s like the guy just disappeared into thin air after that Cormack piece.”

  “Maybe he did.”

  “That’s what Sara thinks.”

  “But you don’t?”

  “I don’t know what I think anymore.” The springs of the chair squeaked when he leaned back. “But he’s not gone. I can still smell him. I can feel him out there, waiting.”

  “For her?”

  Joe closed his eyes. Sara was there in his brain with her tousled red hair, her deep green eyes, her lush Chocolate Silk mouth, so unyielding the last time he’d seen it. “Yeah. For her.”

  “I don’t want to pry, Decker, but...”

  “Then don’t.” He hauled himself to his feet. “I’ll be in my car for the next couple of days. Beep me or call me on my cell phone if anything comes up, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He was almost through the door that led to the hall when Maggie called, “Bundle up, partner. It’s cold out there.”

  He gave her a grin and a thumbs-up, even though he knew damn well she wasn’t referring to the weather.

  At five o’clock Sara stood in the kitchen, idly dipping a spoon in the sugar bowl, trying to remember whether Joe had said one teaspoon of sugar or one tablespoon for every cup of olive oil. She had decided to fix herself a Mama Savona salad, not because she was hungry, but because she needed the distraction. She wondered if it had been such a good idea, trying to make the salad dressing that had come to Joe by way of marriage. Maybe if she used a plain old bottled Italian she’d stop thinking about him.

  He’d be here right now, she reminded herself, if she hadn’t chased him away a few hours ago. Or maybe not. Maybe she’d just given him permission to do what he’d been dying to do all week. To fly the coop. To cut and run like hell from her claustrophobic little world. Who could blame him? If she didn’t suffer panic attacks out in the real world, she’d make her own escape.

  “Damn,” she muttered as she dug the spoon into the sugar bowl, then shook off the excess to make a level teaspoon or so. She was about to sprinkle it into the cup of olive oil she’d already measured when there was a resounding whump in the vicinity of the back porch. The spoon flew out of her hand, and the sugar came down on her head like fine sleet. Ignoring the sugar fall and her thudding heart, Sara stared at the back door. Had she thrown the dead bolt after Joe left?

  Yes! The brass knob was vertical. Locked tight. Thank God. Made braver by the sight of that, Sara edged toward the window and inched the curtain back. She gave an audible sigh of relief when she saw the huge mound of snow and broken icicles that hadn’t been there earlier in the day. For some perverse reason and in direct contrast to her mood, the sun had come out that afternoon. She realized it had melted some of the snow on her roof, causing the little avalanche that had frightened her so badly.

  Sara shook her head, disgusted with herself, determined not to let every little noise turn her into a basket case. The furnace was going to do that weird pfumph in the middle of the night, and she was going to ignore it. The refrigerator would do that tick-tick-katick that it tended to do occasionally. She’d simply turn a deaf ear. Those things hadn’t bothered her in the past. They hadn’t bothered her when Joe was here, and by God they weren’t going to bother her now.

  Anyway, the Ripper was long gone. She was sure of that. Even more sure since Joe seemed to believ
e it, too. He’d signed off as her bodyguard, after all.

  “You’ll have to guard your own damn body now,” she muttered, grabbing a damp sponge to wipe up the spilled sugar. “You’re good at that,” she said as she dragged the sponge over the counter. “You sure guarded it from Decker, you stupid jerk.”

  She slammed the dirty sponge into the sink, turned on her heel—grinding more spilled sugar into the floor—and rushed out of the kitchen before her sobs could bounce back at her off the cold tiles.

  Joe had been parked on Westbury Boulevard since four o’clock. It was six now. Time to start the car, blast the heater for a few minutes to warm up the interior against the dropping temperatures outside. Time to pour himself one more cup of coffee from the thermos stashed in the back. Time to bang his head on the steering wheel and call himself a jerk for being out here on the street instead of inside the big house whose lights cast a rich, golden glow across the snow in the front yard.

  He had parked at the far edge of the property, close enough to let him see everything he needed to, far enough to be out of Sara’s line of sight if she peered out one of the front windows. He didn’t want to frighten her by letting her see he was still anticipating an appearance from the Ripper, and God forbid she should spy him and feel he was intruding on her precious privacy.

  So she wanted to be alone. Fine. Great. He snapped off the ignition and shoved himself down in the seat, thrusting his hands under his armpits to keep them from freezing. Alone was good. You didn’t have to deal with anybody’s problems but your own. You ate when you wanted, slept when you wanted, left your clothes where they fell on the floor and strolled buck naked to the refrigerator any time you damn well pleased. Alone was fabulous. He ought to know.

  Westbound traffic was slowing, most of the downtown drudges already home on a Friday night, making plans for the weekend. His mother had called him an hour ago to invite him for pot roast. “Bring that nice Sara, too,” she’d said, trying to disguise a trill of hope in her voice, then trying not to sound disappointed when he said he wasn’t seeing that nice Sara anymore.

  His heart squeezed tight at the thought of not seeing her, really seeing her, again. At the same time, the thought of his mother’s pot roast made his stomach growl. As many stakeouts as he’d done over the years, you’d think he’d remember to bring an adequate stash of food. The candy bar he’d eaten an hour before just wasn’t doing it.

  He picked up his cell phone and punched in the number of Dominick’s, fully expecting Theresa to answer in that smoky voice of hers and to ask him, “You want the usual, Lieutenant? Large, thin crust, triple cheese and pepperoni?” Except it wasn’t Theresa’s sexy alto on the other end of the line, but the scratchy half tenor, half baritone of a kid, who went on to inform him there was no such thing as triple cheese.

  “Put Dominick on,” Joe demanded.

  After he’d solved the cheese debate, the owner put the kid back on the phone for delivery instructions.

  “Fifty-seven hundred Westbury,” Joe told him. “But don’t take it to the door. I’m in a car out on the street.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” the kid said.

  “Do I sound like I’m kidding?”

  Apparently he did, because the kid hung up on him. Joe was about to call back when the front door of Sara’s house opened, and he caught a glimpse of her in the porch light. He slid down in the seat as she poked her head out, looked up and down the street, then stepped outside, clutching a huge white terry robe around her. There was a white towel wrapped turban style on her head, a red scarf wound around her neck, and big, goofy red boots on her feet. She looked like an escapee from a North Pole booby hatch.

  It didn’t take Joe more than a second to figure out that she was sneaking out for the newspaper at the end of her driveway now that most of the traffic had dissipated. It also didn’t take him more than a second to realize she had pulled the front door closed behind her to keep out the cold. Nice going, Campbell, he thought. Unless you’re carrying your keys, babe, you just locked yourself out of your house.

  She tiptoed along the sidewalk in those big, dopey boots, then followed his old tire tracks down the drive to where the paper had been tossed onto a bank of plowed snow. Paper secured under her arm, she started toward the house. Joe sat there, scrunched down in the seat, debating whether to summon a nearby squad car to help her get back in the house or to pick her lock himself and then have to endure another goodbye.

  Well, hell. People had said worse things to him than goodbye. He jerked open the glove compartment, retrieved his case of lock picks, then got out and slammed the car door hard. The sound echoed in the cold evening air. Sara turned. Her white terry turban wobbled precariously, and when she raised her arm to steady it, the paper dropped to the ground. She ignored it, staring in the direction of the street.

  He had parked out of range of the streetlight so he knew she couldn’t see him. When his footsteps crunched across the lawn, coming toward her, she stood absolutely still and called out, “Who is it? Who’s there?”

  Idiot. What did she plan to do if it was the Ripper? Beat him to death with her newspaper? Snap her towel at him till he cried uncle?

  “It’s me, babe,” he said.

  “Joe?”

  “Yep.” Go ahead. Hit me with that alone business again. Tell me to get lost.

  “Oh, Joe! I’m so happy you came back.”

  He just stood there, amazed, even a little stupified, while she galumphed toward him through a foot of snow, one hand stabilizing her floppy turban, one hand trying to hold together the edges of her robe.

  “Joe!”

  He opened his arms and caught her, deciding then and there it would have to be just this cold in hell—colder—before he’d ever let her go.

  Chapter 11

  Sara stood behind Joe, hopping from one foot to another in order to keep warm while he picked the lock.

  “I don’t understand how that happened,” she said, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. “I always keep the lock set so it won’t do that.”

  “I changed it.” Joe was kneeling, inserting a thin piece of metal into the keyhole, jiggling it. “I didn’t want you to close the door and forget to lock it.”

  “Fat chance. So this is your fault, then, Decker.” She gave his shoulder a little nudge with her knee. “It’s a good thing you just happened to be passing by.”

  “Uh-huh.” He was trying a different pick, patiently playing it in the lock.

  “I guess I owe you now,” Sara went on. “Dinner, at least. What do you think?”

  “At least.”

  She was probably babbling too much, Sara thought, but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t think she’d ever been so glad to see anyone in her whole life, and amazingly, Joe had seemed glad to see her, too. He didn’t even seem to notice that she looked like a nightmare in white terry and red vinyl boots. Or he did notice, but merely believed her current couture was perfectly normal for a nutcase.

  Well, maybe it was. Anyway, he was back and Sara had no intention of kicking him out again, no matter how tense or restless he became. If he left, it would be his decision, not hers. As far as she was concerned, he could stay forever.

  He gave a quick twist to the little metal shaft he’d stuck in the lock. There was a distinct click. He stood up, turned the knob and opened the door.

  “After you, Frosty,” he said, stepping aside to let her pass into the welcome warmth of the foyer.

  No sooner did Sara hear the dead bolt slide closed behind her than she felt Joe’s arms encircling her, his cold cheek pressing against the side of her face, his chin nestling deep into the collar of her robe. “Alone’s no good, Sara,” he whispered roughly at her ear. “Not for me, anyway. Not anymore.”

  “I know. I missed you, Joe. The minute you were gone, I missed you. But I—”

  “But nothing.”

  He turned her toward him, tipping her face up with a thumb to her chin, looking so deeply into her eyes
that she imagined he was studying her very soul. If ever a man looked as if he had the words “I love you” poised on his lips, it was Joe Decker right then. Sara’s heart did a swan dive into her stomach at the precise moment the towel on her head unfurled and flopped over her face.

  Joe laughed softly, lifting the white terry slowly, dramatically, as if it were a wedding veil. “Sara,” he whispered against her lips.

  The kiss that began with slow warmth—a taste here, a nibble there—didn’t take long to reach searing proportions, especially when Joe’s hand slipped the loose knot of her sash, then slid inside her robe. A tiny groan broke in his throat when his fingertips found bare flesh, and then it was Sara who was groaning when those fingertips performed incredible magic on her.

  They were like teenagers, the two of them, loath to say good-night, standing in the foyer and greedily reaching for each other through terry and nylon and leather and flannel and denim.

  “Too many clothes,” Joe muttered after a minute, letting her go just long enough to peel off his jacket, then drawing her against his solid warmth.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” Sara said, nearly shocking herself with her sudden boldness and the note of breathless urgency in her voice, wondering if her watery knees and melting bones could attempt the climb up the long marble staircase now.

  Joe lifted his head from the fierce kiss in progress. He was breathing hard. It seemed to take a minute for his glazed eyes to fully focus on her face. His voice was as scratchy as his jaw. “I, uh, wasn’t anticipating this.”

  “What do you mean?” Don’t stop, she wanted to shriek. Don’t stop now.

  A woeful little grin flicked across his mouth. “I haven’t earned protection in my wallet since I was eighteen, babe. We’re sandbagged. At least temporarily.”

  Oh, Lord. She’d been so consumed by the sheer heat of him and by her burning need that she hadn’t even given a thought to that. It had been so long since she’d made love that she’d forgotten....