by Beverly Long
“You’d had a big day,” he said.
She chewed on the corner of her pretty lip. “Any thoughts about who might have made the call?”
He shook his head. “Not yet, but we’ll figure it out.”
She nodded. He wasn’t sure she was convinced or if she just didn’t have the energy to argue about it. Maybe the time, he decided, when she swung her tanned legs over the side of the bed.
“I guess I better get dressed for work,” she said. “Is that coffee?” she asked hopefully, sniffing the air.
“Yes,” he said. “I can get you some,” he said, grateful for the excuse to move, to do something.
“I’ll get it,” she said. “Please don’t wait on me. Just pretend I’m not here.”
Hard to do when she’d changed the look, the feel and especially the smell of his house. The spare room had a spicy, woman scent. Hell, even Nightmare seemed to smell better.
“If you like pancakes, I made some batter,” he said.
“I didn’t expect that,” she said, looking unsure.
“I have to eat anyway,” he said. “There are towels on the counter in the bathroom.”
“Thank you,” she said. She stared somewhere above his head. “I appreciate this. All of it.”
“No problem,” he said.
He walked back to the kitchen, flipped on CNN, turned it up loud and pretended that he had nothing better to do than concentrate on the latest mayhem in the Middle East. He was definitely not thinking about her standing naked in his shower. No way, nohow.
Twenty-two minutes later, when she walked into the kitchen, all clean and shiny, smelling incredibly good, wearing a black dress, he told himself that he had it all under control.
Then she reached to pull a coffee cup off his shelf and her dress went with her.
He burned the palm of his hand on the griddle and when he jerked back, he knocked the syrup bottle off the counter. The heavy plastic hit the floor with a thud.
“Can I help?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.
“You’re short,” he accused.
Her cheeks got pink. “I know. Being five-three is a curse. I can’t reach anything. I spend a lot of time crawling on and off step stools.”
If she did that, her breasts might be right around eye-level. “That’s dangerous,” he said.
She shrugged. “Is there a bus stop close by? I usually walk to work but your apartment is about ten blocks farther.”
“I can drop you off. It’s no trouble.”
She shook her head. “Absolutely not. If there’s no bus, I’ll walk it.”
One by one, he flipped all six of the pancakes. She was short and stubborn. “Fine. There’s a stop two blocks north, at the corner.” He opened the oven door and pulled out the plates he’d put inside to warm. He slid three pancakes onto her plate.
She took a deep breath. “They smell good. I don’t cook very much,” she admitted. “Just pasta.” She took her time spreading butter on the pancakes and then added syrup. Then she carefully cut a bite and chewed.
“Perfect,” she said, her eyes lighting up.
Yeah, she was.
And she was Tessa’s sister.
He sat down, facing the television, making sure she realized he didn’t intend to talk his way through breakfast. It didn’t seem to bother her. She ate little bites, delicately sipped her coffee and read the newspaper.
Not that he was watching or anything.
He shoved his chair back and took his empty plate over to the sink. “I’ve got to get going. Here’s an extra key. Make sure you lock the bolt lock.”
She nodded. “I guess I’ll see you tonight.”
That probably wasn’t a good idea. “I might be working. It could be very late. You’ll probably be sleeping.”
“Man. I thought I was a Type A.”
* * *
WHEN SAM OPENED HIS DOOR that evening, he heard Jimmy Buffet, he smelled spaghetti sauce and he saw Claire Fontaine’s shoes underneath his kitchen table. Nightmare, lying on a rug in front of the refrigerator, raised his head.
“You are such a traitor,” Sam said. “There’s good leather there and you’re ignoring it.”
Nightmare rested his head on his paws. Sam walked to the stove, picked up a spoon and stirred the bubbling sauce. He sniffed and thought he might be in heaven. He hadn’t had time for lunch and he’d figured dinner would be cereal.
He certainly hadn’t expected her to cook for him. He turned down the flame under the sauce, then stooped to scratch Nightmare’s head. Then he heard a thud from his spare room and what might have been a groan.
He pulled his gun. When he rounded the corner, he stopped. Claire lay on his exercise bench, her back flat, her legs spread, one on each side of the gray vinyl-covered bench. Her eyes were closed, her lips pressed together in concentration, and her arms were extended, with a twenty-pound weight in each hand. With short, panting-like breaths, she began her reps, lifting the weights up over her body, letting them meet in the middle, holding, then releasing.
Her short hair, damp around the edges, curled around her neck and her delicate collarbone glistened with perspiration. And with each lift, her breasts, covered by a tight, white exercise top with thin straps, squeezed together.
Up. Down. Up. Down. Sleek arm muscle rippled, polished skin gleamed and the pulse in the hollow of her neck throbbed.
At a cadence matching his own growing need.
Where the top stopped, the shorts didn’t start. At least three inches of tanned, smooth skin showed. With each lift, her slick stomach contracted, the muscles creating a line of clear definition right down the center. He followed it until it disappeared into her shorts.
Oh, damn, her shorts. Thin, clingy, starting an inch below her navel and ending miles above her knees.
He could see the points of her hip bones, the gentle rounding of her abdomen and lower still, the sharp rise of her pubic bone.
Oh, baby.
He might have actually said it because she dropped the weights with a thud and sat up. “Hi,” she said, a little out of breath. “You scared me.”
She still had her legs spread. He could not think, let alone speak.
“Sam?”
“Yes.”
“Why do have your gun?”
He stared at it. He was never, ever, careless with his gun and he’d forgotten it was in his hand. He slid it back in his shoulder holster. “I heard a noise.”
She slid her bottom along the bench and for one second, Sam imagined her sliding her warm, sweaty body against his. He could almost feel her moist heat, her female warmth. His body tightened in response.
When she got to the end, she put her legs together and stood. It took everything he had not to push her back down, spread her legs again and grind himself against her, muscle to muscle, need to need.
“I made dinner,” she said, wiping her face with a hand towel. “Pasta, of course.” She looked uncomfortable. “Payback for breakfast, you know.”
He was hungry. That was it. That explained why his legs felt like spaghetti and his head seemed empty. Her scent, the spice he sniffed this morning now mixed with feminine energy, danced around him. Desire, sharp and angry, twisted and sick, clawed at him.
He wanted her. He wanted her in his bed. It took his breath away. What kind of bastard was he? He’d offered her protection, a safe place to stay and now he wanted to rip her clothes off and bury himself inside her warm and yielding body.
“I hope you don’t mind that I used your equipment.”
His equipment wouldn’t mind at all.
Yep, no doubt about it. He was a sick, sick man. “No, that’s fine.”
She placed one leg in front of the other and lunged, stretching her muscles.
He wanted her legs, all firm and toned, wrapped around his waist.
She cocked her head. “Are you okay?”
No. Just confused. She was the one who’d been lifting weights, but he was the one who was all hot and
bothered. “I’m fine,” he said, waving away her concern.
She walked past him.
Oh, baby, was there anything sexier than the delicate muscles in a woman’s back?
She turned. “I think I’ll take a quick shower. Would you mind if I watch something on television tonight?”
“A chick flick?” he asked.
“The Cubs are in San Diego. It’s a late game.”
“You like baseball?”
Her face lit up and her eyes danced. “You’re looking at the starting pitcher for the Minooka Timberwolves. I don’t get to talk about it much. Nadine hates sports—turns off the television or radio even when they’re giving the sports news. But I love professional baseball, especially in the fall, when every game counts so much.”
Could this get much worse? He had to put a stop to it now. “Look, I can’t stay for dinner.”
“Oh.”
She had the biggest, prettiest eyes.
“That’s okay,” she said. “I just took a chance. It’ll reheat. You can have spaghetti for lunch tomorrow.”
He’d never look at spaghetti again without thinking of her. “So, how old are you?”
“Twenty-four,” she said, sounding puzzled at the sudden shift in topic.
That’s what he thought. “Are you involved with anybody right now?”
“What?”
“Are you dating anybody?”
She shook her head.
Damn. “You should date,” he instructed. “Girls your age should have boyfriends. Go to parties. Dancing. Fun stuff.”
She stared at him like he’d lost his mind. He was pretty sure he had. It had burst into flames when it had fallen below his belt. “Now’s not the time for you,” he said, “to get serious with anyone. Definitely not.”
Now she looked really confused. “I just told you, I’m not serious about anyone. Why are we having this conversation?”
No way was he going there. “You should have a waiting list,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “Guys on the front burners and on the back, too. That’s what girls your age do. They date, they shop around. They experiment.”
Her big brown eyes opened even wider. “You think I need to experiment?”
She was killing him. “Yeah, I do.”
She rubbed her forehead. “I’ll try to remember that,” she said, sounding weary.
Chapter Six
Three beers later, Sam felt marginally better. He shifted on his worn plastic barstool and caught Patrick Murphy’s eye.
“Hey, Sammy, my boy.” The brawny man sauntered over. He wore a white shirt and dark pants, covered with a big red apron. He ruffled up the back of Sam’s hair. “I don’t see you in here that often anymore. How’s that pretty mother of yours?”
“Still married to my father,” Sam said, shaking his head. It had been three years since he’d brought his parents to Murphy’s for a drink and Patrick Murphy, who had passed sixty sometime back, had taken one look at Sam’s mother and fallen head over Irish heels in love.
“He’s a lucky man. Two sons and a beautiful wife. How much good fortune can a man have?” Patrick inclined his head toward Sam’s empty glass, but Sam shook his head no. More beer wasn’t going to make a difference.
“What about you, Sam? When are you going to find a pretty girl and marry her? Have fine sons and daughters of your own?”
A week ago he’d have laughed off the question. Said something about balls and chains and cheap construction in the suburbs. But now, the question settled over him like an ominous, dark cloud. Maybe it was the impending status of uncle. Maybe it was his mother and her eight months of nonstop chatter about grandchildren. Maybe it was Cruz, a man lost because his marriage had gone bust for seemingly no reason at all.
Maybe it was the memories of Tessa and the young girl he’d almost married. Maybe it was knowing that if Tessa had lived, everything would have been different.
It sure as hell wasn’t that he liked coming home to Claire.
If he wanted spaghetti, Patrick’s cook could whip up a mean sauce. If he wanted big brown eyes and a warm body, he could snuggle up to Nightmare. If he wanted breasts, he could buy a magazine or rent a movie.
“Well?” Patrick prodded.
“I’m too old and set in my ways,” he said. “What woman would have me?”
“I was older than you when I married my Colleen. She was a beauty. Still was when she died twenty-four years later.”
Sam could see the misery in the man’s watery blue eyes. “I’m sorry I never got to meet your wife. She must have been special.”
“Aye. Cancer is a cruel beast. But I’m glad that I had her company for so many years. She could have done better, but she chose me.”
“Where did you meet her?” Sam asked, knowing the man wanted to talk, wanted to remember.
“I met her at her parents’ home. Her pa had hired me to help put a roof on the house, never dreaming that I’d steal his daughter away. Almost killed me when he found out that she’d been sneaking out at night. After all, her being only seventeen and all.”
“Seventeen? How old were you?”
“Old enough to know that I’d found something special. I was thirty-three. A man.”
Sixteen years. Wow. “You’re lucky her father didn’t push you off the roof when you weren’t looking.”
“Believe me, long after the garage had a new roof, I stayed far away when he had a hammer in his hand.”
“What changed?”
Patrick sat down on the stool next to Sam. He turned it so that he was facing out at the crowd, and then leaned back against the wood bar, as if he was royalty watching over his kingdom. “I think he realized that I loved her dearly and that it was mutual. I think he saw, too, that age is a number. When a boy is sixteen and a girl is a baby, the difference is forever. Even when a man is twenty-eight and the girl is barely gracing twelve, it’s a river too wide and deep to cross. But when a man is thirty-nine and his bride is twenty-three, the river dwindles to a small stream. When the man is forty-five and the twenty-nine-year-old woman bears him a child, the sixteen years are a blessing.”
Sixteen? Nine? None of that mattered. He’d just gotten surprised tonight. Hadn’t expected to find a sweaty, half-naked woman in his spare room. Hadn’t expected that he’d react like a teenager. Hadn’t expected that she’d look so hurt when he’d pushed her away.
“I’ve got to go,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’ll see you later.”
“Don’t be a stranger,” Murphy called after him.
He wasn’t a stranger, but he was acting pretty damn strange. He needed to get a grip. He would not be undone by a pair of brown eyes. He would not grovel, beg or via any similar action or reaction, let it be known that he’d taken one look at her legs and almost sworn off breasts. Almost.
There was no sense going overboard.
Sam walked at a slow pace and let the air clear his head. He felt almost normal by the time he got home. That is, until he discovered that his house was empty. Claire’s cell phone and purse were lying on the table next to the futon.
He found the note on his second pass through the kitchen. I took Nightmare for a run.
In the dark? What was she thinking? He looked at his watch. The ten o’clock news had just started.
Did she have any idea of what could happen to a woman at night? Did she really think some stupid dog could protect her? One little bullet, right between the eyes, and Nightmare would be down for the count.
Where would she go? There was a park about three blocks away. Would she head that direction? Did she even know about it? Would she just walk the streets?
He grabbed his keys and was halfway out the door before he stopped. He’d had three beers on an empty stomach. Not enough that he felt anything, but maybe just enough to put him over the legal limit.
Jamie Donaldson’s face flashed before his eyes. Jamie had been one of the best detectives on the force. One night, coming home from a party, well over the l
egal limit, he’d hit two twelve-year-olds as they crossed the street. The girls had been dead before the paramedics arrived. Not only had Jamie about lost his mind, he’d lost his job and more. He was doing five to ten at Joliet, sharing cell space with scum that he’d helped put away.
No way would he get behind the wheel of a car. If he got caught, it could cost him everything.
Yeah, but, not doing anything could cost Claire her life.
He pounded on his tenant’s door and waited impatiently. He knocked again and finally Tom Ames opened the door. He wore ratty black shorts, a T-shirt with a huge hole under one arm and reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. White acne medication dotted his face. He held an open, four-inch-thick microbiology textbook up to his chest. “Sam?” he asked.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Sam said. “But I need your help.”
“You need my help?”
“Yeah. I need to go look for a friend who took Nightmare for a walk. I can’t drive. I had a couple beers earlier tonight.”
Tom, who was working on his second master’s degree, nodded. Tom’s mother worked for the department and no doubt Tom, too, had heard the story of Jamie Donaldson. “Let me get my keys,” he said.
“Is your mom home?”
“No. She’s working nights for the next month.”
Two minutes later, Tom eased his car away from the curb. He drove with both hands on the wheel while Sam sat on the passenger side, his nose practically pressed up to the window. “Circle the block,” Sam said.
“Okay. Who exactly is it that we’re looking for?”
“Her name is Claire. She’s short, dark-haired, about your age. She might be wearing a white shirt and yellow shorts.” Please, please, let her at least have had the good sense to change clothes. Something that covered all her parts. Sam resisted the urge to cross himself, to make it an official prayer.
The streetlights made it easy enough to see the sidewalk. It was a warm fall night and couples, both young and old, strolled along, hand in hand. They didn’t worry him. The group of kids hanging on the front step of one of the brownstones warranted a second look.
