“You won’t even know I’m here,” she assured him.
Of course, that was a big lie. He’d known exactly where she was for days, ever since she’d showed up to temp at McMillan & Milano. He’d been hyperaware of her every glance, every small sharp intake of breath, every response she’d had to his kisses and to his touch. Even as hours passed and despite his worry for Germaine and those debilitating memories lurking in the corners of his mind, he was still aware of Lucy. She’d found a chair in the corner of the E.R. waiting room and had drawn up her legs to curl herself into its molded plastic.
Though he tried pretending she wasn’t there, her steady gaze kept him from snapping at the E.R. receptionist when she refused to give him any information. It kept his voice calm when he recognized a doctor from his police-department days and asked for news. It was Lucy who nudged him when an older woman entered the waiting area. She’d guessed it was Germaine’s sister, Dot, and she was right.
As the late afternoon wore into the evening, then into late evening, they learned that Germaine was stable for the moment, but was being X-rayed for possible fractures. The doctor had yet to rule out a stroke as the cause of her fall. Lucy kept up the supply of coffee and tea for Carlo and Dot, but the caffeine didn’t help his mood.
God, all this waiting! Those around them shifted and changed. A baby with a heavy cough was finally seen. A grizzled old man held his arm against his chest at an odd angle but was stoic, his eyes closed, as he waited for his name to be called. Everything took so damn long in a hospital, Carlo thought.
“I wish Pat were here,” Dot suddenly said.
Carlo’s belly churned. “Yeah.” Instead, Germaine was alone.
Carlo was alone.
He didn’t remember getting to his feet. He didn’t decide to do it. One moment he was staring into the black depths of his coffee, the next he was making strides for the nearest exit.
Can’t stand the smell. Can’t stand the memories.
Pat on a gurney, his eyes already glazed behind slitted lids. At noon that day, Carlo and his partner had eaten lunch with Germaine in their kitchen. Over the meal, the older couple had talked about their plans following Pat’s retirement from the police force. He and Carlo were already well on their way to opening the security firm, but Pat had promised Germaine a cruise before getting too caught up in the new venture. They’d eaten sloppy joes and green salad that Germaine had prepared, and they’d been back at their desks before Pat noticed the sauce stain on his tie.
Pat had shaken his head. “Germaine’s gonna kill me. She gave me this tie for my birthday.”
Germaine hadn’t killed him. That had been the prerogative of a gangbanger with a loose trigger finger. And the sloppy joe stain on Pat’s tie had been swallowed by the much larger stain made by Pat’s blood.
As he thought of Pat’s death, the walls of the hospital hallway squeezed his chest, pressing the air out of Carlo’s lungs. Breathless, he was forced to sag against the nearest plaster surface to keep from passing out. Wouldn’t that be a pretty sight? Former cop made faint by nothing more than his own bad memories. He was so damn weak, he thought, pushing the heels of his hands against his eyes. Some things made him so damn weak.
“Carlo.”
Damn.
Lucy’s voice. Lucy.
He dropped his hands and turned toward her, willing his spine to stay straight and hoping like hell the panic was gone from his eyes. When she came nearer, he slapped on a scowl as a preemptive strike. “I told you to go home, didn’t I? I wish you’d go home.”
I never want you to see me like this.
“Oh, be quiet.”
He stared at her, startled by her no-nonsense tone. “What?”
“I have older brothers, you know. And Elise, despite what you think, could be a royal bitch, especially between the years of thirteen to fifteen. So I don’t scare off easily.”
He hated how she saw through him. Hadn’t the same thing happened the night of the Street Beat party? It ticked him off now, it did. His own siblings and father knew when to back off. Why didn’t Lucy? “Look. I just want you to go—”
“Away. I get that. Well, we’re both going to get your wish, because the doctor just came out and told Dot they’re admitting Germaine. They have a room for her on the fourth floor. Dot’s staying with her.”
“Can I see—”
But Lucy was already shaking her head. “It’s just overnight, but they’ve given Germaine something to help her rest. Nothing’s broken and they’ve stitched up the cut on her head. I think they’re only keeping her because of her age and the lateness of the hour. Or maybe your buddy the E.R. doc said something. Anyway, it looks as if it was a simple slip and fall with no major lasting effects.”
A simple slip and fall that wouldn’t have happened if Pat were still…
He needed to stop thinking about Pat. “All right. Okay. Let’s say goodbye to Dot and get out of here.”
As he’d hoped, the fresh night air helped. And by the time Lucy braked in front of his house, he could think of something besides Germaine’s fall and Pat’s tragic death. Like how he’d been a hell of a lousy companion the past few hours.
With a sigh, he glanced over at Lucy. “I owe you a beer for all you’ve done today. Will you come inside? Maybe I can scrounge up some food, as well.”
She hesitated. “I should probably let you get some rest. It’s been a rough day for you and—”
“There’s nothing wrong with me!” It came out more defensive than he would have liked, but her solicitude wasn’t necessary. “I’m fine. Come in, damn it.”
“Well, when you put it so nicely…” With a roll of her eyes, she turned off the car then followed him inside. “I guess I could use a beer.”
Once in his kitchen, he kind of shoved a bottle at her, but she took it without comment and pulled out a chair to seat herself at his breakfast table. He turned back to the refrigerator, feeling more of his anxiety fall away as he studied the familiar—meager—contents of the shelves. “We have cold pizza, and cold pizza, and some leftover cold Chinese, not to mention cold—”
The sound of glass breaking spun him around.
“Oh, I’m such a klutz!” Lucy dropped to her knees near a puddle of beer and began picking up shards of the bottle. “This will just take a second,” she said, glancing up. “Get me some paper towels, will you?”
He turned away to comply, then turned back. “Here.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him as her fingers found another piece of glass. It must have slipped, or been sharper than she expected, because suddenly blood welled from her fingers. A cut, he thought, going cold as he stared at the fresh red. She’d cut herself, and she’d yet to feel it.
From the corners of his mind, anxiety seeped like a dark cloud. His muscles froze though his stomach roiled as drops of shocking red splashed against the tiled floor. Lucy was still looking at him and her eyes widened at whatever expression crossed his face.
She dropped the piece of glass and rose to her feet, lifting that bloody hand to her face to stroke away a piece of hair clinging to her cheek at the same time. The movement left a smear of crimson slashing from the corner of her mouth to the edge of her chin.
The dark smoke billowed, obscuring the line between reality and memory. Lucy’s cut. Pat’s wound. Lucy. Pat.
“We have to stop the blood,” he heard himself saying. “Right away. Gotta stop the blood.” He had Lucy’s hand now, and was holding the paper towels against the cut, applying pressure to the slice even as he scrubbed at the blood on her face with another towel he ripped from the roll. “Gotta stop the blood.”
Dread tightened his chest as he stared down at the paper towels wrapped around the cut. The red stain on them was spreading outward, getting larger by the second. In his mind, the towels morphed into his partner’s shirtsleeve, going dark and heavy with the liquid pumping from beneath his vest. The dark blue shirt appeared black.
“So much blood, Pat,�
� he heard himself mutter. “Too much blood.”
“Carlo.”
From far away, a voice was calling his name. He tried to shake it off—he didn’t have time to answer, he had to do something about all this blood or else Pat was going to bleed to death before his eyes—but now there was someone tugging on his sleeve.
“Carlo. Carlo, I’m okay. The bleeding’s stopped. It’s just a little cut.”
Lucy’s voice. Lucy’s hand. He looked up. Lucy’s concerned face. Not Pat. Pat was gone.
His head cleared. The past faded and the dread that had been squeezing Carlo’s chest was replaced with heat. The heat of humiliation.
And anger. Anger at himself for not keeping it together. Anger at Lucy—and God, he knew it was unfair, but he was angry at her all the same—for being there to watch him lose it.
She had to think he was nuts. Her free hand stroked his shoulder and there was sympathy in her eyes.
She did think he was nuts.
But she didn’t run out of the house screaming. Instead, she stroked his arm again. “Maybe…” She licked her lips. “Maybe you should see someone.”
“No.” Now she was really making him mad. Couldn’t she leave well enough alone? This was his little neurosis, and it wasn’t hers to comment upon. He didn’t want to hear her say he should see a shrink. He didn’t want to discuss his crazy little flashbacks.
“Carlo. You could talk—”
“No.”
“Talk about—”
She wouldn’t shut up. So he did it for her, he shut her up by pulling her close and stopping the conversation by putting his mouth on hers. Hard.
* * *
It was punishment, Lucy knew that. Punishment for Carlo being understandably affected by his partner’s widow’s hospitalization and punishment for Lucy being the one to see that effect.
But she clung to him, offering her kiss and offering comfort, because she understood what today had cost him. And she’d do what she had to—as a friend, okay?—to take that tragedy out of his eyes.
His arm scooped around her hips and brought her closer against his. She felt him harden against her belly as his tongue entered her mouth. At the first thrust, thoughts of comfort evaporated as goose bumps swept across her skin in a hot rush.
Oh.
Her body bowed into his and her friendly intentions were run off by the sensation of his hot hands squeezing her bottom and his mouth moving against hers. She crowded closer to him, and let her tongue tangle with his. Her eyes closed.
Then he broke their kiss, muttering something. Though his hold on her was as strong as before, he merely rested his forehead against hers. Their ragged breathing matched, but she knew the expression in her eyes wasn’t anywhere near as sad as his.
Noble Carlo, once again in deep regret.
“I’m sorry,” he said a moment later, confirming that she’d pegged his reaction exactly right. “Sorry again. Damn it, I keep ending up like this with you when I don’t mean to.”
At least he hadn’t said it wasn’t where he wanted to be, though she supposed the erection she could still feel pressed against her made that point moot.
He inhaled a long breath. “What is it about you?”
His expression twisted her heart. She wished she could do something about that. What had Elise said to her? That Carlo needed to lighten up. That Lucy should make that part of her job description.
He frowned down at her. “Why do you keep getting past my best intentions, Goose?”
So serious. So worried. I don’t think he knows how to have fun. Lucy replayed her sister’s words again. Maybe it was time Lucy reminded him of what that was like. Maybe it was time to bring him a little more sunshine.
“Will you forgive me, Goose?”
“That’s the last straw,” Lucy said, taking matters in her mental hands as she stepped back from him. “I mean it.” She pointed her finger at him. “Strip.”
He stared. “What?”
“You heard me. I said strip.” She gave him the no-nonsense eye. “I warned you that the next time you called me Goose that you’d owe me, big time, and you agreed.”
Had he? It didn’t matter. Lucy tapped a toe, signaling impatience. “So now I’m collecting. Take off your clothes.”
“What?”
“That wasn’t the first time you got me all worked up only to leave me hanging. I’m not taking it anymore. Now I’m demanding. I’m demanding uh…uh…I’m demanding a Carlo sundae.” Inspired by her own impulsive words, she moved toward the refrigerator. “Surely you have some chocolate sauce and whipped cream in here.”
Though she didn’t look at him as she rummaged around in the refrigerator, she hoped like heck that her outrageousness would change the atmosphere in the room. Her fingers closed around a metal canister.
“Is this all you have?” she demanded, spinning back to face him. “Because I’ll make do, but Cheez Whiz is not my first choice.”
His arms were folded over his chest. His expression was bemused, a vast improvement over bleak, though there wasn’t yet a sparkle of humor. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Complaining about the contents of your refrigerator.” She looked back inside and pounced on another item tucked behind a bottle of salad dressing. “Uh-oh. This is chocolate whipped cream.”
She slammed the door shut with her hip. “I’m a little miffed about this. Chocolate whipped cream is not a guy thing. It’s an item only a woman would buy. Have you been making man sundaes for some other girl?”
He was shaking his head, looking at her as if she was the one who needed a shrink, so she flitted over, can in hand. “Hey, but if it’s this or the Cheez Whiz, I guess I’ll take the cream.”
Toe to toe with him, she arched an eyebrow as she tossed the cap on the counter and shook the can. “Why are your clothes still on?”
He huffed out a breath. “You are not going to get near me with that stuff.”
She hadn’t grown up the youngest for nothing. She poked his belly with the cold can. “I’m near.” Then she nudged his forearm with it. “And look. Near again.”
When she reached farther upward he grabbed her hand. “Knock it off,” he said, wearing a fierce frown. “What are you doing?”
Didn’t anyone ever tease him anymore? She fought to gain back control of the can, but his hold tightened, and then suddenly it sprayed, scattering a flurry of chocolate whipped cream across his beige shirt.
They both stared at the mess. “Whoops,” Lucy said, and let loose a little snicker. “Now you really will have to take it off.”
“Look what you’ve done.”
“Oh, please, Carlo. Take it off and I’ll run cold water over it and it will be as good as new.” Maybe.
But at least he didn’t look sad anymore as he lifted off the shirt and handed it over. Annoyed was an improvement, in her mind. Still, not what she’d been going for.
And so, well, it was another impulse. As she took the shirt with her left hand, the trigger finger on her right just happened to create a tiny chocolate cloud on the curve of his now-bare pec.
He stared down at it, wearing that thunderstruck expression again. It only deepened when she swiped her finger under the chocolate and brought the daub to her mouth, where she sucked it away.
“Yum.”
He looked up. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
She thought he looked pretty cute, half-naked and all indignant. Carlo was no longer bleak, no longer serious, no longer mired in memories.
“Oh, stop it. You’re being a fuddy-duddy again. The stuff’s not poisonous. Why, I remember watching you and your brothers filling your mouths with whipped cream when we were all kids.”
“Oh, yeah? There’s a good idea.” A light entered his eyes and he grabbed the can out of her hands. Then he advanced on her.
Lucy shuffled back. Not too far, because she could see he was playing now, too.
“Open up, Goose.”
The small of her back
smacked the edge of the counter. “Now, Carlo…”
But she couldn’t stop the delight bubbling inside of her or the smile breaking over her lips. He was teasing now, and truly, she didn’t think he’d really go through with it.
“Lucy, open up.”
“Oh, fine.” But instead she stuck her tongue out at him.
And quick as a snake he coated it with the chocolate cream.
Surprised, she started to laugh, but then it died as he choked out a sound, then swooped down to cover her lips with his.
They both groaned.
Blame it on the chocolate, or on the previous kitchen kisses, or on the days of unacknowledged foreplay that had kept the tension high in the McMillan & Milano offices, but this time it didn’t feel like experimentation, temptation or punishment.
This time it felt like pure passion.
“Lucy,” he said against her mouth, even as his hands found the bare skin beneath her shirt and slid up her back. “Lucy.”
“Don’t,” she said, her voice fierce. “Don’t talk anymore. Just kiss me.”
Maybe there were some advantages to being the youngest Sutton. Yes, it made her the family’s favorite screwup, but it also made her, and she’d admit it, just the tiniest bit spoiled. Sometimes she just wanted what she wanted. Right now.
And right now she wanted Carlo Milano. Damn the consequences.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lucy shivered as Carlo’s hands slid from her back to cup her breasts. Her nipples tightened and desire darted like white heat down between her thighs. Her heartbeat started pounding in her ears and her skin felt too tight for her bones.
“Lucy, are you sure—”
She ground her mouth against Carlo’s to stifle his doubts. I want it. I want him. Now.
And if she let him hesitate, she’d be left unsatisfied. Still needy. Lust unrequited.
Spurred by the thought, she grabbed the hem of her shirt and stripped it over her head. He stepped back, his hands at his sides, and she fumbled with the front clasp of her bra on her own.
His nostrils flared as her bra slid down her arms. Looking down, she could see herself, swollen breasts, taut nipples, the way her jittery breaths made her belly tremble.
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