by Beverly Long
“Dinner and a movie. Tonight.”
“Tonight?” The word exploded from his mouth, ruining his I’m-really-not-interested attitude. “I thought she was working late tonight.”
“Evidently not.” Cruz started to look a little irritated.
“But it’s a weeknight,” Sam said.
“Dinner and a movie,” Cruz repeated, his tone hard. “She’ll be home by eleven, Dad.”
Sam could feel the heat rise and knew that his face was probably red. “Are you picking her up?”
Cruz slammed down his coffee cup. “Sam, you’re a nut job. First, you tell me to ask her out and when I do, you make me feel like I screwed up. What’s going on with you and Claire?”
It had sure seemed like there was something going on earlier. Going on, about to go off. It had been close.
And it had been a huge mistake—totally his fault. She’d been confused. It was his responsibility to keep things on the straight and narrow.
Sam shoved his desk drawer in so hard that the stack of papers on the edge of the desk started to slide. He grabbed for them and knocked his stapler onto the floor.
Cruz looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. Maybe he had. “That’s it,” Cruz said, picking up his phone. “I’m calling her now and telling her that this is a mistake. You need to—”
“Stop this,” Sam finished the sentence. “Look, Cruz, I’m being an idiot. This is exactly what I want.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
* * *
“DID I JUST HEAR YOU accept a date? A real I’ll-pick-you-up-and-pay-your-way kind of deal?” Hannah leaned over the edge of the gray cubicle wall, her eyes heavy with mascara and wide with excitement.
Claire wished she could feel the same way. She should. It was her first date in Chicago. With a handsome guy. What was the problem?
It wasn’t with Sam.
But Sam had suggested it. When Cruz had said that, Claire’s hopes had crumbled. Sam wasn’t interested. The message couldn’t have been clearer. So she’d said yes to Cruz. Why not? What else could she do? She’d practically flung herself at Sam two hours ago. He’d been surprised but recovered nicely. It practically made her want to squirm in her chair to remember how nicely he’d recovered. It had been wonderful.
Then it had been like being dumped in a cold lake when he’d pulled away. She didn’t think the chill had left her bones yet. No way could she spend the evening at Sam’s, pretending that she wasn’t hurting. A dinner and a movie really would be perfect.
“Where’s he taking you for dinner?” Hannah asked.
Claire couldn’t resist. “Paris. He’s got a private jet.”
“Oh, my God,” Hannah squealed and Claire worried that the woman might actually throw herself over the cubicle wall. She could hear other chairs being pushed away from desks as coworkers developed an interest.
“I’m kidding,” she hissed. “Dinner and movie. Here. In Chicago. I’ll probably have to leave the tip.”
Hannah’s face fell. “Still,” she said, “it’s a date. What are you wearing?”
“Probably what I have on.”
Hannah looked shocked. “You’re going to wear a brown dress on a date?”
“Taupe, not brown.”
“Even worse. I know the perfect thing. That little black dress you wore when we went to Bartolucci’s for dinner.”
“It was August and ninety degrees. I’ll freeze in that.”
“Wear a wrap over it. Something sexy.”
Hannah wasn’t going to give up. “Fine.”
“I want a full report. Details.”
“Fine,” Claire said again. She studied the papers on her desk, hoping Hannah would get the hint. What the heck had happened? A few days ago, her life had been simple. Now, things cluttered it up—a dead woman on her couch, creepy notes, Sam’s partner and finally, last but not least, Sam.
She’d be able to cross him off her list in a week or so. She needed to talk to Nadine. They’d do it together, the way they always had.
Chapter Ten
At fifteen minutes before three, Claire’s intercom light buzzed. “Claire Fontaine,” she answered, keeping her eyes on her computer.
“Claire, there’s a Sam Vernelli here to see you. He wasn’t on the schedule of today’s visitors. I told him that our staff doesn’t usually see people without an appointment.”
Sam. His coming to her office couldn’t be good news. “I’ll be right out,” Claire said, trying to quell the sudden panic. When she got to the reception area, he had his back to her, looking out the seventh-floor window. The fall sun was high in the almost-cloudless blue sky and the long reach of its rays caused the whitecaps of Lake Michigan to sparkle.
When she’d stood before that same window, she’d always felt tiny in comparison to the wide expanse of the lake, like an inconsequential piece of matter that could be swept away. But now she was struck by how Sam filled up the small space, not small at all. It wasn’t just his physical size, although six feet of pure muscle was pretty hard to ignore, it was also his presence. His air of competence, his sense of purpose, his demeanor of calmness.
Then he turned around and she suddenly wasn’t so sure that he was all that calm. He looked almost agitated.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he rushed to assure her. “You, uh, forgot your linner, you know, lunch and dinner.”
She’d realized that shortly after arriving at the office. It had been one more reason why Cruz’s dinner invitation had sounded good. She stared purposefully at Sam’s empty hands.
“I meant to bring it to you,” Sam added, “but I forgot it on my desk. So I thought maybe you and I could go out and grab a bite.”
Face-to-face, with only a small table between them. They’d knock knees and she’d spontaneously combust. “That’s not necessary,” she said. “I’m going out to dinner.”
“I know. That’s...uh...what I want to talk to you about.”
“Why?”
“Claire,” he said, clearly exasperated with her. He looked over toward the receptionist desk where Marcy was clearly listening to everything. “Can we please just go get something to drink? Is that too much to ask?”
He had no idea. “Fine,” she said finally. “Let me get my purse.” When she turned to go back to her desk, he fell in step next to her. “I’m not going to run out the back door,” she said.
He shrugged. “I’m not worried about that. I’d like to see your work space. Is that where you put your outgoing mail?” he asked, pointing toward the office mail bin.
God, he was such a cop. “Yes.”
“Does she get your incoming mail?” Sam asked, cocking his head in Marcy’s direction.
“Yes. Sorts it and then puts it in the mail trays on our desks.”
“I’ll probably want to talk to her.”
Marcy would love that. Heck, maybe Sam wouldn’t find it all that objectionable either. He didn’t need to feel responsible for Marcy. And she was definitely closer to his age.
The whole idea of it infuriated Claire. “Maybe you’ll want to check my coworkers’ desks, too,” she suggested. “Ask them to show you their black markers.”
It was petty and mean-spirited, but that was pretty much how she was feeling. But Sam seemed determined to ignore her sarcasm. He just shrugged.
Claire led him to her desk. She hoped Hannah was somewhere else. But as luck would have it, the woman was just rounding the corner of the cubicle wall.
“Claire?” Hannah inquired, staring at Sam.
“Uh, Sam, this is my friend, Hannah. We share a cubicle wall. Hannah, this is Detective Sam Vernelli.”
Hannah stared at Sam, her eyes narrowing. “My, my,” she said. She looked at Claire and winked before extending a hand to Sam. “Lovely to meet you. Really. What’s going on?”
“Detective Vernelli and I are going to get something to drink. In fact,” Claire said, her brain finally starting
to function, “why don’t you join us?”
A deep breath left Hannah’s body, taking her from a size twenty to an eighteen. “I don’t think so. You two have fun,” she said, as she squeezed past them. “Bye, now. Behave.” She waved her hand over her shoulder. The bangles on her wrist clinked together and the fluorescent lighting caught the sparkle of the four rings she wore on her plump fingers.
Sam looked a little stunned. “She’s something,” he said.
Yeah, well, Something had just deserted her to play matchmaker. “We better go. I’ve got a lot to do.”
Ten minutes later, she and Sam had a tiny table at a crowded bistro. She’d ordered an iced tea and he ordered a soda. The people at the table next to them both had some kind of pasta dish. It made her remember how she’d made him spaghetti. Earlier, when she’d gotten the jelly out of the refrigerator to make her sandwich, she’d seen the plastic container still there, untouched.
Sort of like her.
“Your office is nice,” he said. “Great view.”
“Uh-huh.” The server brought their drinks and she kept herself busy squeezing lemon into her tea.
“Your receptionist may be part pit bull. I never considered showing up without an appointment to be a federal offense before.”
That made her smile. She was still a little afraid of the woman. “That’s Marcy. Her brother is my boss. I don’t think she thinks it’s necessary for her to be polite or to even work for that matter. Victor likes her up front because she’s pretty, she dresses nice and she sure as heck knows how to screen a visitor.”
“The intake officers at Cook County Jail are more welcoming. Anyway, where was Mission?”
She shrugged. “Maybe out on a client call. Look, Sam, you had something you wanted to tell me?” she asked, looking at her watch.
“I talked to Cruz this morning. He mentioned that you two are going out tonight.”
“Yes.”
Sam waited, like he expected her to say more. She took a drink of her tea.
“You know, he’s had some rough times lately.”
She swallowed. “Rough?”
“He and his wife split. They were married quite a while and really, the ink is barely dry on the divorce papers.”
Now she was getting a headache. “Sam, I’m confused. Cruz said that you encouraged him to call.”
“He told you that, huh?” Sam pulled on his tie like it had suddenly gotten too tight around his neck.
She nodded.
“I did. He’s really a great guy. I love him like a brother. But I...like you, too.”
Had he almost said love? Impossible. Hope flared, warming her. She put her hands in her lap, not wanting to take the chance that he’d see that her hand had started to shake.
“And,” he continued, “I’m responsible for you. I’m the closest thing to family that you’ve got here and somebody needs to watch out for you.”
Emotion surged through her as she heard what he left unsaid. After all, he’d practically been her brother-in-law. She wanted to push the table over and throw a few chairs through the plate-glass window. She was always going to be Tessa’s little sister, somebody who needed to be taken care of, somebody who evidently wasn’t smart enough to take care of herself. It was the second time in less than twenty-four hours that Sam had given her the responsibility speech and she was tired of it.
She shoved her chair back from the table and the wrought-iron legs made a screeching sound against the slate floor. “Here’s a news flash, Sam. I’m not your responsibility. I don’t need or want you to watch out for me. I can take care of myself. So butt out. Stick your nose in somebody else’s business.”
The people around them had stopped eating. Sam ignored them and stood up, reaching for her arm. “Claire, calm down,” he said.
She yanked her arm away, sending a basket of rolls flying out of the hand of an unsuspecting waiter. The young man scrambled after the rolling pastry and the rest of the waitstaff stopped to look. “I am calm,” she yelled. “And I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m wasting time. That stops now. What was it you said the other night? That girls my age need to experiment?”
None of the other customers even bothered to pretend they weren’t listening. Sam’s face lost all its color. “That was just—”
“Brilliant,” Claire said. “Smartest thing you’ve said to me.” She could feel the tears coming, but she would not cry in front of Sam again. She got four steps away from the table before she turned back. “Don’t wait up, Sam. It’ll be a late night.”
* * *
SAM WRENCHED OPEN HIS car door and dropped down on the seat. He picked up the brown lunch sack next to him and tossed it from hand to hand until finally he squeezed his hands together, compressing the sandwich and grapes into one big ball of mush.
“Great idea,” he said, throwing the soggy brown paper ball onto the floor. He’d had every intention of dropping off her lunch, hadn’t even planned to see her. Then, at the last minute, he hadn’t been able to walk away. He’d needed to warn her.
“About what, you idiot?” he asked, looking in the rearview mirror. He didn’t look any different but he sure felt stupid. He’d gone nuts over dinner and a movie. What the hell was he going to do now that he’d practically pushed her into his friend’s bed?
* * *
CLAIRE FELT A LITTLE foolish standing in the apartment, her breasts spilling over the bodice of her dress. It must have shrunk at the dry cleaners. Nightmare studied her. “I should change, shouldn’t I?” Claire asked. Nightmare barked, a sharp yelp that Claire took for a yes.
Even the dog thought she looked ridiculous. After the debacle at the restaurant, she’d barely been able to concentrate on the growing pile of work on her desk. She hoped that she never had the opportunity to eat in that restaurant again. Security camera tapes had no doubt been pulled and her picture plastered up by the entrance, right next to the “We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone” sign.
Hannah, of course, had been waiting at her desk when she’d returned, wanting to know everything. Claire had felt like slime doing it, but she’d looked the woman in the eye and lied. Great time. Best tea in town. Hannah had looked disappointed but hadn’t pushed.
Claire took a step toward the bedroom, intent on changing into something with sleeves and a turtleneck collar, but stopped when the doorbell buzzed. She did not want Cruz cooling his heels while she changed her outfit. That seemed like something a girl did when she and the guy were already a couple.
Instead, she grabbed a sweater off the chair and pushed her arms into the sleeves. When she opened the door, Cruz stood there, holding a small bouquet of flowers in his hands.
“These are for you,” he said, shoving them toward her. His voice had cracked.
“Thank you,” she said, suddenly more relaxed. He was as nervous as she was. “I love daisies.” She grabbed a glass out of the cupboard, filled it with water and stuck the flowers in it.
Cruz shuffled his feet. “They were Meg’s, my ex-wife’s, favorite, too.”
“How long have you been divorced?” Claire asked, remembering Sam’s comment about the wet ink.
“Six months, eleven days,” Cruz said. He rolled his eyes and looked embarrassed. “Not that I’m counting.”
Claire linked her arm in his and shut the door behind them. “Tell me all about her,” she said as they walked down the hall.
* * *
WHERE THE HELL WERE THEY?
Sam paced around his kitchen, stopping every so often to take a swig of his beer and stare at the flowers. Cruz had brought her flowers? Good Lord.
He’d said that he’d have her home by eleven. It was almost thirty minutes after that. Sam picked up his cell and almost pressed Cruz’s number before he managed to stop himself. He deserved this torment. He’d arranged this. Hell, if Claire found her way to Cruz’s bed, Sam had nobody to blame but himself. He’d practically plumped up the pillows for them.
When he heard Claire�
��s laugh outside the door, Sam dived for the couch, grabbed the remote and flipped on the television. The door opened and Claire came in.
“Hey, Sam,” Cruz said, following close on Claire’s heels. “What are you doing? Brushing up on your Spanish?”
It took Sam a moment to realize that Cruz was pointing at the television. Great. A Spanish soap opera. Sam flipped through the stations, killing time, hoping for breath. His lungs felt empty, like they might collapse at any moment.
Skin. Beautiful, honey-colored, bare skin. Claire’s dress, he guessed some might call it that, hugged her in all the right places. Did she even have a bra on?
He just bet Cruz knew the answer to that one. And Cruz, who generally wore nothing but cargo shorts and old T-shirts on his off-time, had on dress slacks and a nice shirt. He even wore shoes instead of his customary sandals.
“You’re late,” Sam said, flipping off the television. “Extra-long movie?” he prodded.
Both Claire and Cruz looked blank. Ugly, dark suspicions crowded Sam’s oxygen-deprived brain. “You did go to a movie?” Sam asked, forcing himself to stay seated.
“Actually, no,” Cruz said, looking a little unsure.
Sam got up and circled around them, taking a position on Cruz’s left. The man had been his best friend for five years. He trusted him. But Cruz was also wounded. Lonely. And Claire was a beautiful woman. “I thought that was the plan,” Sam said.
Cruz held up a hand. “It’s not what you—”
Claire turned toward Cruz. “Cruz, please. I don’t think Sam needs the details.”
Cruz looked from her to Sam. “Sam?” he questioned, clearly uncomfortable.
God, this was killing him. “She’s right,” he said. “It’s none of my damn business.”
Claire squeezed Cruz’s hand and said, “I had a nice night.”
“Yeah, me, too,” Cruz said.
Sam flipped the remote control onto the couch and walked toward his bedroom door. “So everybody had a nice night. That’s great. Just great.”
Chapter Eleven
