Money, Honey

by Susan Sey

  She folded her lips into a thin line and her eyes went dangerously hot. “May I remind you that this child—who does, by the way, have a perfectly decent name you seem unwilling to use—is your niece? Your blood relative? She loves you, for God’s sake. We both do. We shouldn’t have to pay you to love us back.”

  Patrick felt her words all the way to the bottom of his irredeemable heart. And, God, they stung. But what else could he let her believe? He’d already slipped up with Liz today, let her see too much, know too much. He couldn’t risk it with Mara, too. She’d only insist that he was wrong, that he wasn’t dangerous, that he wasn’t contagious, that he should chuck it all and move back to the Midwest to spend the rest of his life in the loving bosom of her family. Or some senseless bullshit like that.

  Bullshit he could scotch in one easy step by simply telling her Villanueva was back in town and most likely looking for some homegrown justice. Loving Patrick was a dangerous endeavor, one he couldn’t in good conscience allow a decent person to pursue. Especially a person with an innocent and precious child.

  Because even if he managed to neutralize Villanueva—and he would—it hardly changed the fact that he couldn’t ever settle down and be Mara’s ever-loving brother. He’d stolen too much, broken too much, enjoyed it too much to ever have the kind of blissful happy ending she wanted for him. The happy ending that in his most pathetic moments he wanted for himself.

  He pulled haughtiness around him like a familiar coat and drifted over to pat Mara on the cheek. “I have missed you, Mara.” She backed away from his touch and he tucked his hand back into his pocket. “Nobody does high drama quite like you do.” He turned from her and chuckled, though it sounded a bit hollow even to his own ears. “You’re too much an O’Connor not to understand the rules, though. Love has nothing to do with it. I did you a favor, and now you’re in my debt. But take heart. I don’t want you to cook up any fake gemstones or anything.”

  Mara watched him warily. “I should hope not. I’d hate to call the FBI on your ass.” She jerked a shoulder at Patrick’s lifted eyebrow. “What? She already knows the word, thanks to you.”

  “Thanks to Liz,” he said. “Hell was mine. Ass was hers. Which brings me around to my favor.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want a gourmet meal, the kind that put Brightwater’s on the Michelin map, catered into one of the private guest suites here on the third floor.”

  Mara blinked. “For how many?”

  “Two. Me and Liz.”

  “Ah.” The anger in her eyes died into something more speculative, more—God help him—amused. “So it’s like that, is it?”

  Patrick sighed gustily. “It’s like nothing you need to be concerned about.” After this morning, he needed Liz back off balance, needed the reins of power firmly in his own hands again. And nothing seemed to throw her off balance more effectively than the prospect of romance. Especially romance with him. It was a tool, and he’d use it. God help them both.

  “I like Liz,” Mara began.

  Patrick smiled. “So do I. She’s a big girl, Mara. She doesn’t need you playing mother hen.”

  “You bet she does. I’m married to a guy like you. I ought to know what a girl needs when confronted with”—she waved a hand up and down his person—“this.”

  “I don’t think Jonas would appreciate the comparison, and at any rate, I really don’t want to hear about your sex life.”

  “I don’t need to facilitate yours,” she shot back.

  “But you will,” Patrick said, smiling serenely. “You have a soft spot for me. Besides, this isn’t the only favor I’m doing you. I wouldn’t even be in the same state as Liz if you hadn’t called me here.”

  Mara’s brows shot up. “You must really want this,” she said softly. “Because that’s a damn big card to play for a favor this small.”

  You have no idea, Patrick thought. He only smiled.

  IT WAS almost sunset as Liz mounted the steps to Brightwater’s Restaurant and Casino that night. It was a lovely old Victorian, three rambling stories of wraparound porch and gingerbread trim. Little paper lanterns had been strung under the eaves, and they bobbed playfully in the late spring breeze. Her hair bounced a bit, too, and Liz touched a rueful hand to the curled ends as she clipped across the porch to the red lacquered screen doors.

  She’d probably gone too far with the hair, she thought. But it had gone so well with the dress that she hadn’t been able to resist. She had no idea which clubs Patrick was planning to drag her to tonight, but he’d suggested in that cool, supercilious way of his that she dress for the occasion. So she had. If he didn’t like it, tough.

  But what if he liked it too much? And what if she liked it that he liked it too much? She shoved that possibility out of her mind and yanked open the screen door with a calculated effort at businesslike purpose.

  The homey clink of silverware on plates drifted over her on a rush of warm, delicious air. It was nearly a tangible thing, this cozy invitation to sit down and eat that Mara seemed to produce wherever she went. Liz took a moment to close her eyes, breathe it in and wish she’d had more than a spoonful of peanut butter for dinner. She was about to slip down the oak-paneled corridor to the stairs when a smiling young waitress appeared.

  “Agent Brynn? Mr. O’Connor’s asked me to put you in the River Suite.”

  Liz blinked at the girl. “I’m sorry?”

  The waitress didn’t break stride, just put a professional hand under Liz’s elbow and said, “The River Suite. Mr. O’Connor asked that you wait for him there.”

  “Oh.” Liz frowned but allowed herself to be towed to the elevator in the lobby. “All right.”

  The door swished shut with a competent little bing, and the waitress slid a surreptitious look at Liz’s shoes. Liz angled one foot so she could get a better look. They were great shoes, after all. Mocha satin, three-inch heels, tied onto her feet with big floppy bows over each instep. Who wouldn’t look?

  The girl flushed prettily. “I’m staring,” she said on a little laugh. “Sorry. They’re just so . . . cool.”

  Liz smiled. “I know. They were ridiculously expensive, but I fell in love.”

  The girl sighed wistfully as the elevator slid past the casino level and came to a well-mannered halt at the guest suite level. “Who wouldn’t? They look like they belong on a forties call girl.” Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with dismay. “Oh my God. I didn’t just say that. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

  Liz laughed and stepped onto the comfortably faded carpet of the hallway. “No, that’s perfect,” she said. “You’re absolutely right. Put a nice demure dress like this with some vintage hooker shoes, and it’s an interesting picture isn’t it?”

  The picture got more interesting when you put a 9mm in the handbag, but Liz didn’t mention that little fact.

  The girl’s eyes stayed round, but she gave another sigh. “I’m totally going to remember this if I ever get asked to the prom.” She led Liz to the door at the end of the hallway and said, “You’re going to knock Mr. O’Connor’s eyeballs out.”

  Liz shook her head. “He’s not my target audience, but thanks.”

  The waitress shook her head in return but didn’t say anything. She just removed a key card from her apron pocket and swiped it through the reader. The door swung open and Liz stepped into the River Suite, named obviously for the majestic sweep of the Mississippi that curved away under the purple sky. From this height, it was a ribbon of night black satin dropped carelessly between the red-oak bluffs, framed by a wide, three-paned window. Liz had lived most of her life within driving distance of the river and yet was drawn to the view like she’d never seen it before.

  It pulled her across the deep green carpet until she could lay a hand against the polished oak window frame. She was vaguely aware of the waitress withdrawing and the door clicking shut behind her, but she still spoke out loud. “God, that’s just gorgeous, isn’t it?”

&
nbsp; “It is,” Patrick said. She turned to face him, not entirely surprised by his sudden appearance. She rarely heard him approach unless he wanted her to, she knew that. And he hadn’t wanted her to hear him. Because tonight was, judging from the intensity with which he was watching her, all about keeping her off balance.

  “Well, well,” she said, keeping her voice light, “look at you.”

  And she did. How could she help it? His hair was a black spill of raw silk over his forehead, his fallen-angel face all stark planes and hollows in the fading light. He wore an open-collared shirt of off-white, the cuffs rolled easily back, the tails untucked and flowing the way that only truly expensive fabric can. His trousers were nearly the same mocha color as her dress and broke beautifully over his long and somehow elegant bare feet. She arched a brow. “Forget something?”

  He smiled at her, and in the half-light it was both wicked and remote. “I don’t believe so.” He strolled across the carpet toward her, and the hair at the nape of her neck rose in delicious anticipation. He picked up one of the hands she’d buried in the froth of her skirt and brought it to his lips. “Though I can’t guarantee my memory in the face of such beauty.”

  Liz hissed at the fire of his lips against her skin, hoped she sounded angry rather than singed. It was an effort, but she kept her hand easy in his and said briskly, “Well, I suppose you’ll remember as soon as you set foot in any one of the number of clubs you’re dragging me to this evening. Those floors are disgusting.”

  He looked down at his bare feet ruefully. “Now there’s a mental image I may never be free of. Thankfully, it’s an experience I can skip. We’re not going anywhere.” He reached out his other hand and traced a palm over the smooth curve of her hair, his eyes going dangerously hot and intimate. “I’m not sharing you with anybody tonight.”

  Chapter 12

  “WHAT?” LIZ did yank her hand away now. She gaped at him in astonishment. “Do you know how long it takes to get into a getup like this?” She flapped a hand in front of her, indicating the dress, the shoes, the hair.

  “I have no idea,” he said, his eyes warm and smoky as they traveled leisurely from head to toe. “I’m rather more interested in the other side of the coin.”

  She glared at him. “Could you cut it out with the innuendo for just a minute here? I’m trying to work.”

  He lifted his shoulders and reached for her hand again. Held it this time when she tried to yank it back. “This isn’t about work, Liz.”

  “Then what the hell is it about? And if you hand me one more tired line, I swear on all that’s holy, I’ll shoot you.”

  “Understood.” He cast a respectful glance at her evening bag. “Come with me,” he said, drawing her toward the door that presumably led to either a sitting room or, God help them both, a bedroom. “I want to give you something.”

  Liz grudgingly allowed herself to be led, curiosity warring with good sense. “What is it?”

  He tossed a smile over his shoulder that did nothing to calm her jumping nerves, pushed open the door and pulled her through.

  PATRICK STOPPED when Liz’s fingers slid from his, turned to find her still and staring, those incredibly sexy shoes of hers frozen to the floor.

  “Liz?”

  “What is this?” she asked, staring at the white-draped table for two as if he’d pulled a gun on her instead of surprised her with a lovely dinner.

  He let his lips curve into an indulgent smile. She was so suspicious of gifts. She had every right to be, of course. His motives were hardly pure. But still, it was charming. “It’s dinner,” he said simply. “The meal people generally eat between lunch today and breakfast tomorrow?”

  “I know what dinner is,” she snapped. “I’m more concerned with the why.” She shifted her gaze to him, and he felt the punch of it all the way through to his soul. This was dangerous, he knew. She was dangerous. But the rising sweep of excitement and pursuit pushed any caution underground. Maybe it was foolish, dancing this close to the edge of his control, but he’d been half dead for years and hadn’t even known it. Not until he’d kissed Liz.

  Now he was vividly, painfully alive again, and he’d be damned if he’d let her go before he’d had the chance to slake whatever crazy thirst she’d awakened in him.

  He put on his best placating smile but added just a touch of condescension. It would put her at ease, he knew, to think that he was amused by her, perhaps exercising just the tiniest bit of patience. The raw hunger churning in his gut for her was best left undiscovered. For the time being.

  “Why are we eating dinner?” he asked. “Together?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because you did me a favor today. Quite a large one, as it turns out. I wanted to return it.”

  She stared at him. “I put curlers in my hair. How is that a favor to me?”

  He couldn’t help himself; he reached out and threaded a finger through one of the fat curls framing her face. “Soldiers went off to fight the Nazis with pictures of girls like you in their helmets.”

  She slapped his hand away. “And it wasn’t just soldiers making the sacrifice, believe me. This is not an easy look. I thought we were working tonight. If you wanted to do something nice for me, you could have dropped off a pint of Ben and Jerry’s.”

  “You misunderstand.” He smiled and handed her a chilled glass of wine. She took it automatically and he sipped his own, approving the fruity tones and the hint of bubble in the texture. Mara knew what she was doing, he thought. “Dinner is my favor to you. Seeing you in that dress is my favor to myself.”

  Her blue eyes went steely, and damn if he didn’t want her just a bit more. “Did you owe yourself a favor?”

  “No, but I’m the self-indulgent sort. Try your wine.”

  She narrowed her eyes but lifted the glass to her lips. He saw the moment the wine hit her tongue. Those bluebell eyes of hers widened just slightly, then drifted half closed to savor. He’d give anything to get that reaction the next time he kissed her.

  “Sit,” he said, taking advantage of her preoccupation. Who’d have guessed that Liz was such a sensualist? That his ever-practical cop could enjoy so profoundly the flavors, the textures, the scents of beautiful things? His entire system revved at the idea of all the sensations he could introduce her to, but he kept his hands impersonal as he slid her into a pretty, curved chair. She sat without argument in a puddle of crinoline and café au lait silk that he found indescribably feminine and unbearably hot.

  “What is it?” she managed, and Patrick laughed, pleased with her.

  “It’s a Vin de Savoie. From Domaine Marc Portaz.”

  “Oh my Lord,” Liz said faintly. “It’s heavenly.”

  “You’re incredibly rewarding to indulge, Liz,” he said, watching her take another slow sip, prepared this time for the pleasure of it. It was wickedly arousing, so he set his own wine aside and selected a candied walnut from the platter between them. He brushed it against her lips and to his surprise, she opened for him. He slid it between her lips and was gratified by her small sigh of utter delight.

  A single candle burned on the table, slim and elegant in a silver holder, and it turned her skin the smooth gold of early peaches. Patrick watched his hand tremble—actually tremble, for God’s sake—with the force of his desire to touch all of it.

  “What is that?” he asked blandly, and watched as her eyes fluttered open and then focused. “The dress, I mean. This part here.” He reached out with a now-steady hand to finger the sheer material in the tender hollow under her collarbone. It was warm and he gritted his teeth against the overwhelming urge to keep touching.

  “Oh.” Liz laid a protective hand over the demure scoop of her bosom. “The underdress is just a strapless cocktail dress in silk. The overlay is marquisette, though. Don’t you love the corded trim and all those swirly patterns over the shoulders? They totally make the dress.”

  He smiled and handed her a green grape. “No, that would be your skin.”

&
nbsp; “Excuse me?”

  “Your skin,” he said again. He didn’t smile this time. This time he meant it and he’d let her see it. “That’s what sells a dress like this. It’s all clean, sober lines—no cleavage, no cling, just all that smooth, warm skin under a transparent layer of gauze. It’s an invitation to touch, Liz. Your shoulders, your arms, your throat, God, just here.” He touched the very tip of his finger to the crazy beat of her pulse. “It’s sexier than hell and would make any man worth the title want to put his hands on you.” He gave her a crooked smile. “God knows I do.”

  Liz stared at him, still and shocked. Patrick let the silence draw out, wondering what she would say once she wrapped that agile mind of hers around his words. A discreet knock at the door had her whipping around before he was nearly done watching her.

  The door eased open and the waitress rolled a silver cart into the room bearing two covered plates. “Are you ready for your salads?” she asked politely.

  Patrick leaned back in his seat and watched Liz. She wanted to run; this was her chance. She glanced at him, found him watching her. He tipped his palms up, let his brows raise in challenge.

  “Where’s your courage, Liz?” he asked softly.

  For a moment, he thought she would shove away from the table and stalk out of the room on those amazing shoes of hers. But she just drew in a sharp breath and lifted her chin as she turned from him to smile benevolently at the waitress.

  “Yes, thanks,” she said. “Salad would be wonderful.”

  “YOU REALLY speak German?” Patrick asked.

  Liz leaned back and sipped at her wine. It was lovely and made her feel loose and light. Or maybe that was Patrick. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had dinner with a man who’d actually asked her questions, let alone listened to the answers.