Ditto night two, during which topics inevitably became more personal. Instead of favorite bands, they got around to talking about why they felt strongly about some issues. Adam dwelled on the battered women and rape victims he saw, and the ways the process increased their trauma, but also his frustration with women who balked at testifying and then went back for more. Naomi told him about her own fundraising focus on an L.A. battered women’s shelter and also the fight against breast cancer. A close friend of hers had died of breast cancer when she was only thirty-one.
The worst part was the heat she saw in his eyes, reminding her of the desire she did believe he felt. In the two evenings, he hadn’t made a move, respecting her expressed wishes, but he definitely looked. Unfortunately, she looked, too, when she thought he wouldn’t notice, and, damn it, she was in a seemingly permanent state of frustrated arousal that she could never satisfy.
Yesterday evening, she’d worked out a new recipe while he alternated sitting at her table, pacing through the house and an occasional check of the ‘perimeter’. Naomi hated it every time he went outside. That’s when she thought about the vest beneath his denim shirt and why he wore it. Unlike her, he didn’t take his off when they got home. He might have thought she hadn’t noticed the big black handgun he carried all the time, but she had. Every single time he went outside, she’d stand very still and wait for the sound of a gunshot. She’d have to look away when he came in so he didn’t see her bottomless relief. Having him go out to hunt for a killer…that didn’t become routine.
And then there was her confusion. He wasn’t the enemy, she did believe that, but he was still a threat to her. More of a threat than ever, as her feelings for him weakened her.
She kept wondering why he hadn’t asked more about his partner’s death or what investigators told her or even what she suspected. Instead, he talked about everything but. Each time she let herself believe, even for a minute, that one topic was flowing naturally into another, she’d realizing that even when he smiled, he was also watching her. Waiting.
Her own tension cranked up until she didn’t know if she could stand it.
This afternoon, when she came back to the kitchen after stripping off the wretched vest, he offered to make dinner.
“You’ve been cooking all day.”
“I told you I made a bunch of stuff when I was stressed. I experimented with different cheeses on a vegetarian lasagna. I can defrost it in the microwave.”
“Lasagna?” He sounded so hopeful she laughed and got it out of the freezer.
She’d almost have rather cooked from scratch – God knows she could use some comfort cooking – but she was tired, too. Between listening for every sound in the night and thinking about the man on the couch in her living room, she’d been doing a lot more tossing and turning than sleeping.
A glance at the clock told her it was only four-thirty, technically too early for dinner, but she’d barely had a bite since leaving the house this morning, and she’d discovered that Adam was always hungry. As lean as he stayed, he must burn calories at a phenomenal pace. That probably had to do with the fact that he didn’t stay still long, and didn’t sleep much. If she got up to use the bathroom during the night, the lamp was almost always on in the living room and he’d look up from a book or his laptop and quietly ask if she was all right.
Maybe this wasn’t normal for him. She knew he was on edge because of the threat to her, but he had to relax sometimes, didn’t he? She tried to picture him sprawled in bed, sound asleep. Or satiated after amazing sex.
She almost moaned, imagining it, and had to sternly remind herself why making love with him was a really terrible idea. If nothing else, he’d soon be gone from her life. Best possibility, they’d triumph, and he’d go away. Or this would drag on until even he admitted that her disappearing was the best plan.
He’d find out she’d killed his partner and arrest her.
Or, her personal favorite, she’d be dead. That was a possibility, too. One she absolutely refused to dwell on, even though, come to think of it, she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t rather die than go on trial for murder.
Most of the time, he was so damn confident, she almost believed she’d somehow survive. And then she’d remember her real role here and know better.
Ba-aa.
She was ripping lettuce for a salad when he asked, “Was your mother a cook, too?”
Of course he’d guess that much. Her hands barely faltered. “Yes. A really good one. When I remember her, we’re always in the kitchen.” It had to be the stress that caused her eyes to sting. “She liked to eat a whole lot more than I do, though. Mom was short but plump.”
He came to lean against the counter only a few feet away. Too close. “Mine is, too. Now.” He frowned. “Those years before Dad died, she got skinnier and skinnier.”
“Unhappy.”
“I always thought she was trying to disappear,” he said slowly. “It scared me.” His gaze traveled over her body. “Did you used to eat better than you do now?”
Had she? “I was always little and scrawny for my age. Everyone worried I didn’t eat enough, but I’ve just never been interested.”
“And yet you cook extraordinary food for everyone else.”
She peeled cucumber. “Feeding people is satisfying.”
“Did your stepfather like your mom’s cooking?”
Damn him. “Yes.”
He didn’t say anything else, although he kept watching her. And she thought, Yes. Yes, Mom cooked to divert him, please him, protect herself and me.
Even then, she’d known that.
So why do I cook? Because I learned it as a coping mechanism?
I don’t know.
“Your family,” she heard herself say. “Before your dad was fired. Were you happy?”
“Yeah.” His voice became even huskier than usual. “Mom smiled all the time. Dad seemed larger than life to me. Soccer came later for me. Back then, I played baseball, because that’s what he’d played. He was always willing to pitch, or catch so I could practice my pitching. He’d take Mom out dancing, or just put on a record and they’d slow dance in the living room. He liked to make us happy. He was always bringing presents home to Mom, or he’d come in the door and say, ‘I’ve got tickets to tomorrow’s Dodgers game. Who wants to go?’ He could produce tickets to anything. Man, my sister wanted to see Duran Duran, and somehow Dad scored her a pair of tickets. I could never figure out how—”
If she hadn’t been looking, she wouldn’t have seen the stunned expression on his face as he broke off mid-sentence. He was good at covering what he didn’t want her to see. This time, it was too late.
Heart pounding, she whispered, “Adam?”
He pushed away from the cabinet. “I’m going to take a look outside,” he said, sounding angry.
She’d have reminded him he had come in only a few minutes ago, but he was already gone. Getting away from her.
The microwave beeped and she went mechanically on with the meal preparations, wondering if there was any chance at all he could let himself accept the dark knowledge that had been inside him all along, or if, while he circled her house, he would succeed in burying it deep again. Leaving him able to believe his father had been both innocent and wronged.
Like Frank Donahue, she thought bleakly, and was afraid she knew the answer.
CHAPTER TEN
Son of a bitch. Had he actually let himself entertain, even for an instant, the possibility that his father had been on the take?
Yes.
Shaken to his core, Adam took a quick look around, then folded to sit on the single step leading up to the side door into Naomi’s cottage. He couldn’t focus well enough to patrol. Here, he knew she was only a few feet away and safe for the moment.
Why now? he asked himself, half in anguish, half in genuine puzzlement. It wasn’t as if he’d forgotten that his father had liked to do things for his family, had had a gift for coming up with those ultra-desirable tickets t
hat made Adam’s friends green with envy. He’d partly remembered the flowers and pieces of jewelry Dad brought home for Mom because he quit bringing them after he lost his job. Adam had believed his father was so consumed by his own bitterness, he hadn’t thought of doing things like that anymore. And yeah, of course money must have been tight. He’d probably lost his pension, too. But he had found a job only a couple of months later, and it wasn’t the value of the things he brought home to Mom that mattered, it was the thought.
He remembered the worry and tension that filled the house in those years, Mom shushing Adam and Ellen where once both his parents had encouraged exuberance. Her glow had taken time to fade. She’d believed in her husband, Adam thought. Had complete faith. It was his anger that had done so much damage to all of them, not the accusations.
Hadn’t Mom ever wondered how he afforded all those little extras? Adam had to ask himself now. She’d never worked, and cops’ salaries were notoriously stingy. Then, Adam hadn’t really known how steep the price of concert tickets was. Sure, they were cheaper then – but salaries were lower, too. A lot lower. And the pretty pieces of jewelry had later been sold, because some of them had had diamonds set in gold. Dad shouldn’t have been able to afford the frequent dinners out, either. The pickup truck his friends envied, which he’d supposedly gotten for a song because he knew how to play hardball.
“They knew I meant it when I started to walk out,” he’d bragged.
Oh, yeah, Adam thought now, he played hardball all right.
My father was on the take. Guilty as sin.
After he got fired, was he genuinely bitter because his buddies all did it, too, and he felt unjustly singled out? Or were the angry protestations of innocence cover for the humiliation that had destroyed the father Adam remembered, like termites hidden within the walls that turned a solid wood structure to sawdust?
My father, the crook.
He heard himself give an incredulous laugh. Man, did he know how to bury his head in the sand or what?
And he knew why the light bulb had flashed on now: because he’d let himself talk to Naomi as he hadn’t to anyone else, ever. The only friend of his who knew about his father’s history was Juan Ramirez, and him only the bare bones. Adam had told the story created by Dad to protect himself, and perpetuated by his family who hadn’t wanted to admit the possibility that he’d taken bribes.
Naomi was sharp enough to have understood what he was really saying before he did. He didn’t know how he felt about the swift compassion on her face or the soft way she said his name. He could trust her to keep what she knew to herself, but he had to wonder if the new knowledge would change how she saw him. Maybe that compassion was really pity, because she guessed how willfully he’d blinded himself.
He bent forward and drove his fingers into his hair, yanking hard. Could she be in there right now thinking he’d known all along and lied to her? What if it crossed her mind that, if his father had been a dirty cop, he might be, too?
God knows, she’d been suspicious all along. And how could he blame her, given her experience with Cobb’s staff of part-time, off-duty cops?
Was Dad’s worst sin taking handouts to turn an occasional blind eye? Or did he do more?
Adam searched his memory. Dad had done outside gigs, he remembered that much. Directed traffic after big games, things like that, or so Adam had believed. Mom, too, he thought; she’d always been pleased, because it meant extra money. Keeping two kids in decent clothes and sports equipment cost. She had talked hopefully about starting college funds for Adam and Ellen.
Maybe some of those gigs hadn’t been so innocent.
Another memory slid into his mind: Frank bitching about what it was going to cost to put his kids through college. Enraged at what he was presumed to be able to come up with. His face had turned purple. “Who the fuck are they kidding? On what I take home?”
But Adam slammed that door shut. No. Just…no.
Frank talked about taking some of those off-duty jobs, but had been pissed because of the long hours the two of them already worked. It wasn’t as if they were eight to five.
Adam clenched his teeth. He wasn’t going there. His father might not have been the man Adam had believed him to be, but there was no reason to let that new and painful knowledge cast a shadow on Frank. Damn it, they’d worked closely together! Adam hadn’t been a kid anymore, one who’d desperately wanted to believe in his daddy.
Did his mother know?
Will I ever say anything to her?
Hell, no. He might talk to Ellen about it one of these days, though. She was a couple years older than him. She might have seen more than he did, might even have been keeping her mouth shut to protect his memories of their father.
Yeah, I’ll do that, he thought, relieved at the reminder he had someone he could really talk to. Opening up too much with Naomi was…high risk. Best to drop the subject.
Hard, when what he wanted to do was go right back in there and rip himself open for her benefit – after telling her that, whatever she feared, she could trust him.
Whether he could trust her, though, that was another story. She swore this time she wouldn’t run…but she’d promised before, too. And no, that wasn’t a personal betrayal – she was scared, and for good reason – but it felt personal, damn it.
Disconcerted by how much he did want her to trust him, to believe he’d never let her down, he finally groaned and got to his feet. The sky had darkened appreciably just while he sat here. In fall and winter, night came way earlier this far north than in southern California. When the sky was overcast like today, though, the change was subtle. No spectacular sunset over the ocean gave warning of nightfall.
He moved quietly between houses, checking out the black silhouettes of rooftops. Naomi’s house was mid-neighborhood, too far from the higher ground of the promontories encircling Jasper Beach to allow for a sniper to set up with that advantage, thank God.
He could see in windows at neighbors puttering in their kitchens or chatting on phones, completely unaware of him slipping through their yards. The beanpole tall, painfully skinny guy next door – Arthur – was already at his table eating a microwave dinner right out of the container. At least he had a real dessert to look forward to; yesterday Naomi had sent Adam over to deliver a plateful of cookies to the old guy.
Calmer when he let himself back into the house, he found her setting the lasagna on a hot pad on the table. He inhaled, and his mouth started to water.
“Dinner’s ready,” she said brightly and unnecessarily.
Adam shook droplets of drizzle from his hair. “Does it ever snow around here, or does it do nothing but rain all winter long?”
“It mostly rains.” She added a salad and then couple of different dressings. And – damn – garlic bread, too. Adam had never eaten so well.
He just wished Naomi would eat a little more. She might claim she never did much but nibble, but he’d swear she was losing weight in the short time since he’d first set eyes on her. Then he’d thought pixie; right now, he was thinking more waif.
He hoped like hell it wasn’t a conscious decision, a way of saying, If you won’t let me disappear the way I want, I’ll do it the only way left to me.
As dark as his mood was, it improved as he ate. He couldn’t have had a better meal in the finest Italian restaurant in L.A.
“Your talents are wasted in this burg,” he finally said, wiping his mouth and trying to decide if he could possibly stuff in a third helping.
“I’m happy here.” A tiny crinkle between her eyebrows suggested some inner perturbation.
‘Happy’ wasn’t a word he mostly associated with her. More often than he liked, Adam found himself remembering their one dinner date and the way her face had lit with smiles he hadn’t seen since.
“There are some good people here,” he conceded. He had been unexpectedly impressed with both Daniel Colburn and Alex Mackay, men he thought he could call friends if he were to stick around
long enough.
As if she’d read his mind, Naomi asked, “You haven’t said when you’re expected back to work.”
Yeah, that was a problem, one he’d been blocking out. He had something like six weeks of vacation unused, but he’d only asked for two, expecting it to be enough to find out what the chef really knew. Unfortunately, his absence left the detective squad short-handed. The lieutenant would not be thrilled if he were to call and say, “I’m having such a good time, I think I’ll stay another few weeks.” No, he’d be ordered to get his ass back to work.
“I won’t abandon you,” he said, disturbed by what he was really saying. If he had to quit his job, that’s what he’d do. For a woman he hadn’t met ten days ago.
For a moment, she looked deep, something he didn’t understand on her face. Hope? Or was it despair?
But all she did then was nod and go back to pushing food around on her plate.
“You’re scaring me,” he said gruffly.
Her head came back up, her eyes startled. “What?”
“Please eat.”
“Oh,” she said after a moment, very softly. “You’re thinking about your mother.”
His mother? Then he remembered what he’d said, about thinking Mom had been trying to disappear.
“No.” He frowned at her. “It’s you I’m thinking about.”
“Oh,” she repeated, even more quietly, before taking a bite. Under his gaze, she made some inroads on the small servings she’d given herself. Then she looked up with a tiny flicker of a smile. “Are you satisfied?”
God, no, was all he could think, trying not to let his gaze drop from her face to that delicate, utterly feminine body he craved. Apparently he didn’t hide his powerful response well enough, though, because he saw first shock on her face, then the same helpless desire he felt before she looked away.
“We still have cookies,” she offered, in a small, husky voice.
“Thank you,” he managed, hearing the roughness in his voice. He’d have stood to fetch the damn cookies instead of acting as if he expected to be waited on, except then he wouldn’t have been able to hide how hard he’d gotten with so little excuse.
See How She Runs (A Cape Trouble Novel Book 2) Page 16
