by Nora Roberts
It was probably why it hadn’t taken him long to get her into bed. But it had taken three months before she’d given him a key to her door.
“I stopped in downstairs to get some dinner, caught up with Fran.” She unwound her scarf, pulled off her hat, then did a little twirl. “I had the best day, Luke, and the best news when I—”
“Glad somebody did.” He moved away from her, turned off the TV he’d been watching, then slumped in a chair.
Okay, she thought. He was sexy and interesting and often sweetly romantic. But he was also a lot of work. She didn’t mind that. In fact, being in what was largely a man’s world most of her day helped her enjoy little bits of being softer, and more consolatory in a relationship.
“Rough one?” She peeled off her coat, her gloves, put everything away in the narrow closet.
“My assistant gave her two weeks’ notice.”
“Oh?” Reena finger-combed her long curls, thought idly about trying a new style. Then felt guilty for not paying attention. “I’m sorry to hear that.” She bent to unlace her boots. “Why is she leaving?”
“Decided she wants to move back to Oregon, for God’s sake. Just like that. Now I’ve got to set up interviews, get somebody in she can train before she leaves. This on top of three out-of-office meetings today. My head’s killing me.”
“I’ll get you some aspirin.” She walked over, leaned down to kiss the top of his head. He had such nice, silky hair, mink brown like his eyes.
As she straightened, he took her hand, gave her a tired smile. “Thanks. Last meeting ran late, and I just wanted to see you. Decompress.”
“You should’ve stopped in downstairs. Decompression’s always on the menu at Sirico’s.”
“So’s noise,” he said as she moved into the bathroom. “I was hoping for a quiet evening.”
“It’s quiet now.” She brought out the bottle, carried it into the little kitchen with its old workhorse of a stove and cheerful yellow counters. “I’ll join you in a couple of aspirin. I had a lot of champagne down below. Major celebration.”
“Yeah, you looked to be having a hell of a time. I glanced in the window before I came around back.”
“Well, you should’ve at least poked your head in.” She handed him the aspirin, the water.
“I had a headache, Cat. And I didn’t want to sit around in a noisy restaurant waiting for you to finish partying.”
And if you had a headache, she thought, why the hell didn’t you get your own aspirin sooner? Men could be such babies. “I might’ve finished partying earlier if I’d known you were here. Fran’s pregnant.”
“Hmm?”
“My sister Francesca. She and Jack found out they’re going to have a baby. Her face could’ve lit up Baltimore when she told me.”
“Didn’t they just get married?”
“It’s been a couple years, and they’ve been trying almost since the get-go. We tend to head straight for the nursery in my family. Bella’s already had three, and is making noises about having one more.”
“Four kids in this day and age. It’s irresponsible.”
Easing down on the arm of the chair, she gave his shoulder a rub. “That’s what you get with a big Italian Catholic family. And she and Vince can afford it.”
“You’re not thinking about popping one out every couple years, are you?”
“Me?” She laughed, gulped down water. “Kids are way down the road for me. I’m just really getting started on my career. Speaking of which, I had my first major case today. Did you hear about that building on Broadway, untenanted apartment building, single victim?”
“I didn’t have time for the news today. I put in twelve hours. And spent a lot of that tap-dancing for a potential client, a major one.”
“That’s great, about the major account.”
“I don’t have it yet, but I’m working on it.” His hand, long fingers, narrow palm, ran gently over her leg. “I’ve set up a dinner with him and his wife, Thursday night. Wear something special, will you?”
“Thursday? Luke, my parents are coming back from Italy on Thursday. We’re having dinner at the house. I told you.”
“So, you can see them on Friday, or over the weekend. For God’s sake you live right down the street. This is a major account, Cat.”
“Understood. And I’m sorry you won’t be able to make it for the welcome back dinner.”
“Are you hearing me?” The hand on her leg clenched into a fist. “I need you with me. This is the kind of socializing I need to do to land this account. It’s expected. It’s already set up.”
“I’m sorry. My evening’s already set up, and was before you booked Thursday night. If you want to reschedule, I’ll—”
“Why should I reschedule?” He pushed out of the chair, threw out his arms. “This is business. This is a major opportunity for me. It could mean the promotion I’ve been working toward. You all but live with your family as it is. What’s the big freaking deal about eating some damn spaghetti, when you can do the same thing any other time?”
“Actually, we’re having manicotti.” But she pushed down the spurt of irritation as she got to her feet. “My parents have been gone nearly three weeks. I promised I’d be there unless I got called out on a case. They’re going to come home to the news that their oldest daughter is having her first child. This is major in my world, Luke.”
“So what I need doesn’t register?”
“Of course it does. And if you’d asked me before making these plans, I’d have reminded you that I was already committed, and you could have suggested another night.”
“The client wants Thursday, the client gets Thursday.” He snapped it out as temper ruddied his cheeks. “That’s how it works in my world. Do you have any idea, any conception, how competitive financial planning is? How much time and effort it takes to swing a multimillion-dollar account?”
“Not really.” And it was probably her lack that she couldn’t care less. “But I know you work hard, and I know it’s important to you.”
“Yeah, that shows.”
When he turned away, she rolled her eyes behind his back. But she stepped forward, prepared to soothe. “Look, I’m really sorry. If there’s any way you can move it to another night, I’ll—”
“I just told you.” He threw out his arms again as he spun around. And the back of his hand caught her sharply on the cheek.
She jerked back, her eyes going huge as she pressed her fingers to the sting.
“Oh God, oh my God, Cat. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—Did I hurt you? Oh Jesus.” He took her arms, and his face was as stunned as she imagined hers was. “It was an accident. I swear.”
“It’s all right.”
“You just walked right into it. I didn’t expect . . . I’m so fucking clumsy. God, let me see. Is there a bruise?”
“It was barely a tap.” True enough, she thought. More a shock than an actual hit.
“It’s red,” he murmured and touched his fingers gently to her cheek. “I feel terrible. I feel like a monster. Your beautiful face.”
“It’s nothing.” She found herself soothing him after all. “You didn’t mean it, and I’m not fragile.”
“You are to me.” He drew her into his arms. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have come by in such a lousy mood in the first place. I just wanted to see you. Then you were partying downstairs. I just wanted to be with you.”
He brushed his lips over her cheek. “Just needed to be with you.”
“I’m here now.” She touched his hair. “And I’m sorry I can’t help you out on Thursday. Really.”
He eased back, smiled. “Maybe you can make it up to me.”
The sex was good. It was always good with Luke. And because of the spat, and the slap, he was particularly tender. Her body warmed under his, the muscles taxed by her own long day loosened. And while her system climbed to peak, her mind emptied.
Satisfied and sleepy, she curled against him.
“You ever
going to get a bigger bed?” he asked.
She smiled in the dark. “One of these days.”
“Why don’t you come to my place for the weekend? We can hit a couple of clubs Saturday night, do a late brunch Sunday morning.”
“Mmmm. Maybe. I may have to help out with the lunch shift downstairs on Saturday, but after. Maybe after.”
He was silent a moment, and she thought he’d drifted off to sleep. “You could deal with your parents earlier on Thursday, skip out of the dinner part and meet me at the restaurant at seven.”
“Luke, that’s just not going to work for me.”
“Fine.” There was a sulk in his voice as he rolled away, got out of bed. “We’ll just leave it all your way, as usual.”
“That’s not fair, and you know it.”
“What’s not fair,” he snapped back as he began to dress, “is your unwillingness to compromise on anything. The way you put everything ahead of me.”
The postcoital glow evaporated. “If you really feel that way, I don’t know what you’re doing with me.”
“At the moment, neither do I. You take more than you give, Cat.” He buttoned his shirt with short, sharp movements. “Before much longer, I’m going to be tapped out.”
“I’m giving you the best I’ve got.”
He shoved his feet into his shoes. “That’s really sad for you.”
When he stalked out, she lay back.
Was she that selfish? she wondered. That emotionally stingy? She cared about Luke, but did she take a real interest in his work? Not so much, she admitted, not when she was so wrapped up in her own.
Maybe her best was sad.
She rolled over in the dark and searched a long time for sleep.
When Reena walked into the squad room with O’Donnell after spending most of her shift knocking on doors and interviewing witnesses, getting statements from the owner of the building’s ex-wife, former business partner, current girlfriend, there were three dozen long-stemmed white roses spread over the majority of her desk.
The flowers caused a lot of comments from other members of the unit, but the card made her smile.
Cat,
I’m sorry.
The Idiot.
Still, she didn’t indulge in sniffing at them until she’d carried them into the break room to give her enough room on her desk to work.
She had reports to write. Though the identity of the body had yet to be confirmed, the owner was still among the missing.
With O’Donnell, she walked into their CO’s office to update him.
“Waiting for the lab reports,” O’Donnell began. “Owner—James R. Harrison—was last seen knocking a few back in a place called Fan Dance, a strip club a few blocks from the scene. We got a credit card receipt cashing him out at twelve-forty. Ford truck registered to him’s parked back of the building.”
He glanced at Reena, signaling her to take over.
“We found a toolbox under the debris on the first level, and a screwdriver with a blade that appears to match the punctures on the bottom of the gas can recovered from the scene. Harrison did a turn for fraud five years ago, so his prints are on file. They match ones we lifted from the toolbox, the screwdriver and the gas can. ME wasn’t able to get prints off the body, so they’re working on dental.”
“We should have that tomorrow,” O’Donnell added. “Talked to some of his associates. He had serious money problems. Liked the horses, and they didn’t like him.”
Captain Brant nodded, sat back. His hair was ice white, his eyes a cold blue. There were pictures of his grandchildren on a desk he kept as tidy as her aunt Carmela’s company parlor.
“So, it’s looking like he lit the place up, trying to cash in on the insurance, got trapped inside.”
“Looking that way, Captain. The ME didn’t find any signs of foul play, no wounds or injuries. We’re still waiting for tox,” Reena added, “but nothing’s popping that indicates somebody wanted him dead. He has a small life insurance policy. Five thousand, and it goes to the ex-wife. He never changed the beneficiary. She’s remarried, got full-time employment, so does her husband. She doesn’t look good for it.”
“Wrap it up. Quick work,” he added.
“I’ll write the report,” she offered when she and O’Donnell walked into the squad room.
“Have at it. I’ve got some other paperwork to catch up on.”
He sat. His desk faced hers. “It your birthday or something?”
“No. Why? Oh, the flowers.” She settled in front of her keyboard with her notes. “Guy I’m seeing was a bit of a jerk last night. I get the bennies.”
“Classy.”
“Yeah, he’s got that going for him.”
“This a serious deal?”
“Haven’t decided. Why, you hitting on me?”
He grinned, and the tips of his ears reddened. “My sister’s got this kid who’s done some work for her. Carpenter. Does good work. Nice kid, she tells me. She’s trying to fix him up.”
“And what, you think I’ll go on a blind date with your sister’s carpenter?”
“Said I’d ask.” He lifted his hands. “Nice-looking boy, she says.”
“Then let him find his own girl,” Reena suggested, and began to write her report.
11
Bo scarfed down the last peanut butter cookie, washed it down with cold milk. Then, sitting at the breakfast counter he’d built himself, gave an exaggerated sigh.
“If you’d ditch that husband of yours, Mrs. M., I’d build you the home of your dreams. All I’d ask in return would be your peanut butter cookies.”
She grinned, and flicked her dish towel at him. “Last time it was my apple pie. What you need’s a nice young girl to take care of you.”
“I’ve got one. I’ve got you.”
She laughed. He really liked the way she laughed, with her head thrown back so the big boom of it hit the ceiling. She had a round, comfortable body and so would he if she kept feeding him cookies. Her hair was red as a stoplight and all fuzzy curls.
She was old enough to be his mother, and a hell of a lot more fun than the one nature had given him.
“Need a girl your own age.” She poked a finger at him. “Handsome boy like you.”
“It’s just that there are so many to choose from. And none of them hold my heart like you, Mrs. M.”
“Go on. You’ve got more blarney than my old grandda did. And he was Irish as Paddy’s pig.”
“There was a girl once, but I lost her. Twice.”
“How?”
“Just a vision across a crowded room.” He lifted his hands, flicked his fingers. “Evaporated. You into love at first sight?”
“Of course I am.”
“Maybe this was, and I’m just wandering aimlessly until I find her again. Thought I did once, but she poofed on me that time, too. Now, I’ve got to get going.”
He unfolded himself from the stool, six feet two inches of lean muscle. The years of physical labor had built him up, toughened him.
She might have been twice his age, but she was still female, and Bridgett Malloy appreciated the view.
She had a soft spot for this handsome boy, that was the truth. But she was too practical to have continued to throw work his way over the past six months if he wasn’t skilled and honest.
“I’m going to find you a girl yet. Mark my words.”
“Make sure she knows how to bake.” He bent down, kissed her cheek. “Say hi to Mr. M. for me,” he added as he pulled on his coat. “And just give me a call if you need anything.”
She handed him a bag of cookies. “I’ve got your number, Bowen, in more ways than one.”
He headed out to his truck. Could it get any colder? he wondered, and stuck to the path he’d dug out for her from steps to driveway. The ground was white with snow that had melted to ice, refrozen. And the sky above was a heavy gray that promised more of the white stuff.
He decided he’d stop at the market on his way home. Man didn
’t live by peanut butter cookies alone. Maybe he wouldn’t have minded finding a woman who knew her way around the kitchen, but he’d gotten to be a good hand in there himself.
He had his own business now. He patted the wheel of the truck as he got in. Goodnight’s Custom Carpentry. And together, he and Brad had bought, rehabbed and turned over a couple of small houses.
He could still remember talking Brad into that first investment, pitching the sagging wreck of a house as a diamond in the rough. He had to give Brad credit for vision—or utter faith.
He had to give his grandmother credit for trusting him enough to front some of the money. Which reminded him to call her when he got home, see if she needed him to fix anything around her house.
He and Brad had worked like dogs, rehabbing that first house. They’d turned a good profit, repaid his grandmother plus interest. And reinvested the rest.
When he took the time to think about it, to really think back, he had a dead boy to thank for where he was today. Why that event, the death of a virtual stranger, had changed his life he couldn’t be sure. But it had motivated him to stop drifting, to get moving.
Josh, he thought now as he drove away from the Malloy house in Owen’s Mill. Mandy had been really broken up about it. And oddly enough, the fire and the kid’s death had been some of the elements that had cemented their friendship.
Brad and . . . what the hell was her name? The little blonde who’d been the object of his friend’s intense desire back in those days. Carrie? Cathie? Shit, it didn’t matter. That hadn’t gone anywhere.
Right now, Brad’s object was a spicy brunette who liked to salsa dance.
But his own blonde—the one glimpsed at a party a lifetime ago—still cropped up in his mind now and then. He could still see that face, the tumble of curls, the little mole near her mouth.
Gone, long gone, he reminded himself. He’d never known her name, the sound of her voice, her scent. Which was probably what made that memory, that feeling all the sweeter. She was whatever he wanted her to be.
