So she didn’t protest when his hands scaled her heaving rib cage and cupped her breasts. Her startled gasp turned into a breathless moan as he kneaded and caressed her through the cotton halter, making her nipples tighten until they stung.
“You like that?” he whispered huskily, watching her face.
Tommie nodded helplessly, not trusting her voice.
Paulo leaned forward and kissed her, a deep, carnal kiss that drugged her senses. His tongue slid along her open lips, probing and dancing against hers, drinking in her shallow, panting breaths. Breaking the kiss, he grasped the hem of her halter top and yanked it up over her head, flinging it aside. The cool air on her skin was quickly chased away by the smoldering heat of his gaze, roaming hungrily across her breasts.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he uttered hoarsely, his voice filled with reverence.
Tommie trembled with arousal, watching as his dark head descended to her naked breasts. He pressed them together with callused hands, drawing both nipples into his hot, silky mouth. She cried out, heat flooding her loins, swelling her clitoris. He used his tongue, lips, and teeth to tease and torment her, causing her spine to arch and her hands to grip the back of his head, holding him tightly against her.
“Oh God…Paulo…” she whispered, aching for more, desire pounding relentlessly through her body.
The urge to feel his bare skin against hers made her reach down and tug his turtleneck from the waistband of his trousers. She splayed her hands against the broad, muscular expanse of his chest. He shuddered beneath her touch. His pectorals were firm and sinewy. His skin was so hot it scorched her. She ran her fingertips down his flat abdomen, following the arrow of soft black hair that dipped below his waistband. His stomach muscles contracted, and he made a low, growling sound deep in his throat.
In one fluid motion he had Tommie on her back, covering her with the solid weight of his body. His heart thudded against hers, and his breathing was as rapid as her own. She looped her arms around his neck as he seized her mouth in a fierce, ravenous kiss.
Reaching between their bodies, he cupped her sex through her jeans. She moaned, arching against his hand, opening her legs. She wanted him inside her, wanted him to assuage the urgent, pulsing ache between her thighs. When he lowered his head, flicking his tongue over her breast, she whimpered his name.
“What do you want, querida?” he murmured, the deep, masculine timbre of his voice vibrating through her. He blew gently on the taut, swollen bud of her nipple, and she shivered uncontrollably. “Do you want me?”
“Yes,” Tommie breathed.
“Do you want me to make love to you?”
What the hell kind of question was that? “Yes,” she whispered, impatiently this time.
Lifting his head, Paulo smiled, a dark, seductive smile, and slid his tongue slowly across her trembling lower lip. “All you have to do,” he murmured silkily, “is say please.”
It took several moments for the meaning of his words to sink in. When it did, Tommie stiffened. She stared into his dark eyes glittering with wicked triumph, and her insides turned to ice. Angrily she shoved at his chest, and with a low chuckle Paulo lifted himself off her and sat on the edge of the sofa.
“Tommie—”
“Shut up and hand me my shirt,” she snapped.
He hesitated, then reached down and retrieved her discarded halter from the floor. She snatched it out of his hand, seething with fury and humiliation as she yanked on the shirt and pulled it down over her still-tingling breasts.
When she’d finished she sat up, smoothing her disheveled hair away from her burning face. All the while her mind mocked her with the arrogant boast she’d made over dinner: I’ve never begged any man for anything, least of all sex.
Never say never, Paulo had warned, his eyes glinting with challenge.
God, she was such a fool. He’d played her. And she never even saw it coming. She’d been on the verge of doing exactly what she’d sworn she would never do: beg a man to make love to her.
“Look, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Paulo said, a trace of regret in his voice.
Lifting her chin, Tommie looked him square in the eye. “You’ve proved your point,” she said in a voice chilly enough to freeze water at fifty paces. “Now get out.”
Paulo held her gaze a moment longer, then blew out a deep breath and rose to his feet. Tommie was right on his heels as he retrieved his leather jacket from the hall closet and shrugged into it.
At the front door he paused and glanced down at her. “If you think I wasn’t right there with you the whole time,” he murmured, “think again.”
Tommie was unmoved. “Go to hell, Paulo.”
He inclined his head, then turned and sauntered out.
When he was halfway down the stairs, Tommie called out, “And, Paulo?”
He glanced back at her.
Standing in the doorway, she said coldly and succinctly, “In case you misunderstood me the first time I said it, let me make myself perfectly clear. I don’t want you coming back here again. I mean it. Stay the hell away from me.”
Paulo gave her a long look. Then suddenly his mouth curved in a slow, knowing grin.
Tommie gaped at him, shocked and infuriated by his response. “What’s so damned funny?”
“I know you wish you meant what you just said, but we both know better.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I do mean what I just said!”
Paulo shook his head slowly, his gaze straying to her breasts, then easing back up to her face like a lazy caress. “Your mouth says one thing, querida, but your body doesn’t lie.”
Tommie opened her mouth to protest, but no words came forth. She made a strangled, ineffectual sound in her throat, then stepped back and slammed the door with shuddering finality.
As she leaned against it, trembling with outrage, Paulo’s parting words reverberated through her brain, taunting her. Your mouth says one thing, but your body doesn’t lie.
What the hell was that supposed to mean? Tommie fumed, glancing down at herself. At the sight of her nipples protruding prominently through her shirt, she closed her eyes and groaned.
Because she knew Paulo had been right.
She could rant and bluster about him staying away from her until she was blue in the face, but nothing would change the fact that she wanted him. Badly. And as long as her body betrayed her, as it had tonight, Paulo would always have the upper hand.
The arrogant bastard knew it, too.
A sudden knock on the door made Tommie jump. Gritting her teeth, she yanked the door open and glared at Paulo. “What?” she snapped.
“I realize you were in a hurry to get rid of me,” he drawled, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth, “but I thought you should know I’m not going anywhere until you come downstairs and lock up behind me.”
Tommie stared at him for a moment, then took great satisfaction in slamming the door in his face.
Paulo was still chuckling quietly to himself as he slid behind the wheel of his police cruiser fifteen minutes later, which was how long Tommie had left him cooling his heels in the main foyer before she’d finally emerged from her loft to see him out.
As he cranked the ignition, he didn’t bother turning on the heat, though it was cold enough for him to see his breath. He was hoping the frigid night air would cool the fire that had been raging in his blood for the past hour—hell, for the past twenty-four hours, ever since he’d laid eyes on Tommie for the first time in four years.
He hadn’t intended to kiss her when he showed up at her loft that evening. After being immersed in homicide investigations all day, he’d needed a break. Needed time to be a regular person instead of a cop. He’d sought Tommie out because he enjoyed her company, although he knew he was playing with fire every time he went near her.
Tonight, of course, had been no exception.
Paulo shook his head, shoving away the needle of guilt that pricked at his conscience when he thought
of how their latest encounter had ended. So he’d wounded her ego and pissed her off a little—okay, a lot. So what? It wasn’t as if he’d gotten her all worked up, then rejected her. Hell, he’d wanted nothing more than to peel off her skintight jeans and drive his aching erection into the hot, slick clasp of her body. He’d wanted her sweaty and clinging to him, her thighs clamped around his waist, cries of ecstasy erupting from her throat with each deep, penetrating thrust.
Paulo shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat and dragged his hand over his face, a grim smile curving his mouth at the irony of his situation. In the process of proving to Tommie that he could make her hot for him, he’d deprived himself of the pleasure of making love to her. Talk about a hollow victory.
With one last look at the old brick building, Paulo backed out of the parking space and swung onto the quiet street lined with giant oaks. As he passed under a streetlamp he glanced out the window, thinking of how remote this corner of town was, with its abandoned warehouses and empty lots. Although Tommie’s property boasted easy access to all of the major highways, her closest neighbors were a good ten minutes away. Which made Paulo decidedly uneasy, considering the fact that she was a single woman who lived alone.
Like Maribel Cruz.
Paulo frowned at the thought, his mind flashing on images from last night’s dream. Maribel’s ghostly face transforming into Tommie’s. Tommie’s whispered plea for help.
Let it go, man. It was just a dream. It doesn’t mean anything. Stop acting like your superstitious eighty-year-old grandmother, who believes every dream is a message from God!
As Paulo slowed to a stoplight, his cell phone rang above the crackling police band radio. He dug the phone out of his jacket pocket and answered, “Sanchez.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that one of my parents’ employees had been murdered?” Rafe Santiago demanded.
Paulo grimaced. “Not my fault. Your mom didn’t want you to worry.”
“What the hell? I had to learn about the murder on the evening news—a whole day after the fact.”
“What, you been hiding under a rock or something?”
“No, Korrine and I just got back from a training program in Quantico.” Rafe was the assistant special agent in charge at the San Antonio FBI field office, while his wife, Korrine, was quickly establishing herself as one of the Bureau’s best and brightest agents.
“What the hell happened to Maribel Cruz?” Rafe asked.
Paulo gave his cousin a quick rundown of the case, describing the grisly crime scene and his subsequent interviews with the victim’s coworkers and neighbor. “We’ve got no suspects or motives so far,” he said, “because it doesn’t appear that Maribel had any enemies. But the killer obviously had a reason for writing the word liar on her bedroom wall. It’s some kind of clue or message.”
“Any leads on the early-morning visitor?”
“Not yet. While we were at the neighbor’s house, we got on the computer and pulled up photos of just about every four-door model you can think of. Mrs. Ramirez—the witness—thought a BMW could be the car she saw, but she wasn’t completely sure. And the harder we pushed, the more unsure she became.”
“Damn,” Rafe muttered. “You think Maribel had a guy over yesterday morning?”
“Probably.” Paulo wheeled around a corner and cut across two lanes of downtown traffic, light at this time of night. “My gut tells me the coworker, Kathleen Phillips, knows more than she’s letting on.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I questioned her yesterday, I got the feeling she was hiding something. If you ask me, I think she’s trying to protect someone.”
“Like who?”
“Her boss, Ted Colston. I think he and Maribel were sleeping together.”
“What? Where’d you get an idea like that?”
Paulo hesitated, knowing he’d open himself up to speculation and innuendo if he revealed that Tommie was his source. “I found out that Colston took Maribel to a dance performance in February.”
“Are you kidding me?” Rafe sounded thunderstruck—and disgusted. “What the hell was Colston thinking, taking his secretary out on a date?”
“Good question. Supposedly he bought Maribel two tickets to the show for her birthday. When her date canceled on her, Colston graciously stepped in. Helluva guy, huh?”
“Jesus,” Rafe muttered. “My parents aren’t gonna be too thrilled to find out one of their partners was having an affair with his secretary. They’ve both been very vocal in discouraging that type of behavior at the firm.”
“Imagine how they’re going to feel if it turns out that Colston killed Maribel,” Paulo said dryly.
“Aw, hell.”
Paulo smiled grimly. “If it’s any consolation, Colston doesn’t own a BMW, or even a black vehicle. Neither does his wife. I checked—just in case he might have been driving her car yesterday.”
“That doesn’t let him off the hook,” Rafe said. “You still think Kathleen Phillips is hiding something. Maybe Colston threatened to fire her if she told anyone about his affair with Maribel.”
“I thought about that. If Kathleen and Maribel were as close as she claims, she’d definitely know if Maribel was sleeping with their boss.”
“She had to be involved with someone. Who else would’ve been visiting her that early in the morning?”
“Whoever he was, he had access to her house. I looked through her mortgage papers, and sure enough, she owned two garage door openers. One is missing and unaccounted for.”
“And her family doesn’t know anything?” Rafe asked.
“Nope. They hadn’t seen Maribel since last year when she went home for Christmas. They said she didn’t call or visit very often. Seems her job was her life. She only had a couple of friends outside of work. We spoke to both of them this afternoon, but they weren’t much help, either.”
“When’s the autopsy?”
“Tomorrow. The ME promised he’d get it done first thing in the morning.”
“Couldn’t bully him into doing it today, huh?” Rafe drawled.
Paulo scowled. “Not for lack of trying.”
Rafe chuckled dryly, all too familiar with his cousin’s reputation for intimidating medical examiners into producing speedier autopsy results. While Paulo was a master at finessing witnesses and outsmarting suspects, he’d never acquired the diplomacy needed for dealing with the officials who were integral to his homicide investigations. As a result, he was always butting heads with them.
“Let me know if you need any help from the Bureau,” Rafe offered. “I can run interference with our Houston office.”
“Thanks. I’ll let you know.” Glancing in the rearview mirror, Paulo noticed a black Nissan Altima that was following a little too closely. He frowned, tempted to flip on his siren and lights and pull the idiot over for tailgating. But even as the thought crossed his mind, the other driver slowed down, as if suddenly realizing how close he’d come to getting slapped with a ticket.
“It’s too quiet there,” Paulo said, shifting his gaze back to the dark stretch of road. “What’d you do with Korrine and the kids?”
“Kaia and Ramon are in bed. Korrine’s on a three-way call with her mother and sister, talking about the wedding.”
Paulo chuckled. “So Stella’s still going through with it?”
“Looks that way.”
Rafe’s mother-in-law was a two-time widow on the verge of tying the knot with husband number three. After years of stringing along with her lover—a photographer half her age—Stella Beaumont had finally agreed to marry the poor bastard. Paulo hoped to God that Benicio Delgado knew what he was getting himself into. Stella was high-maintenance, an ex-socialite who’d been shunned by all her society friends in the wake of a scandal involving her late husband. The woman’s life had been filled with more drama than the television novelas watched religiously by Paulo’s mother and aunts.
“Just let me know when and where the wedding will be held,�
�� Paulo said, grinning, “and I’ll be there.”
Rafe snorted. “I bet you will. You’re the only guy I know who actually looks forward to attending weddings just to get laid.”
Paulo’s grin widened. “Hey, what can I say? When you’re forced to go to as many weddings as I have, you learn to make the most of every opportunity.”
Rafe laughed. “Spoken like a true libertine.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You would. Anyway, I’m gonna call my parents and offer my condolences.”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t discuss the specifics of the investigation with them,” Paulo said. “One whiff of impropriety or conflict of interest, and my ass will be tossed off the case.”
“I know the drill. But at least keep me posted, will ya?”
“As if I have any other choice,” Paulo retorted before hanging up.
As he shoved the phone back into his pocket, headlights flashed in his rearview mirror. He glanced up, annoyed to see the dark sedan bearing down on his bumper once again. What the hell? Paulo thought, scowling. Didn’t this asshole know he was tailgating a damned cop? Was he trying to get pulled over?
Paulo hit the brakes and watched with perverse satisfaction as the other driver swerved to avoid colliding with him. Just to taunt him, Paulo yanked the steering wheel to the left and veered into the next lane, cutting off the Nissan. The driver slammed on his brakes, his tires screeching loudly in protest. As Paulo continued down the road, the Nissan backed off, slowing to a crawl until it fell several car lengths behind the Crown Vic.
Paulo shook his head in amused disgust. Damned Houston drivers.
Minutes later when he exited onto the I–59 ramp heading south, the Nissan kept going. Good, Paulo thought darkly. He wasn’t in the mood for playing traffic cop tonight.
Like No One Else Page 12
