It’s not too late. She could go back inside, or walk around the house to her car and drive away. She could go to dinner or to a club. She could find someone to share a drink with, to dance with, to take her mind off Joe.
But her mind hadn’t been completely off Joe in the two-plus years since they’d met.
She took a breath. Went down the steps and to the edge of the sidewalk. Took off her heels. Walked barefoot through the cool grass to the edge of the second sidewalk. Put the heels back on. Climbed his steps.
He turned on the porch light but made no move to open the screen door. The faint scents of soap and shampoo drifted on the air, and his hair was slicked back, his feet bare. He wore khaki shorts that displayed an impressive pair of muscular legs, and a T-shirt, old, faded, bearing only part of a logo for the University of Illinois. The rest had flaked away in years of wear.
He looked incredible.
“Hey.” His voice was low, husky.
“Hey,” she echoed, just as soft and husky.
“You look…” He sucked in a breath and shifted as if standing still had become uncomfortable. “I was going to come over.”
“Should I go back home and wait?”
Finally he raised one hand to the screen door and pushed it open. “No,” he said with a grin that made her knees go weak. “Come in.”
She was careful not to bump him as she went inside, though she swore she felt the heat and tension radiating from him. A few steps into the room, she stopped, both hands clutching her purse, and faced him. “I wondered if I could talk you into going to dinner with me.”
“Dinner?” he echoed.
“To start.”
He considered it, as if there were many things he’d rather do at the moment than sit in a restaurant, eat and make polite conversation. Some of them, she was pretty sure, were things she’d prefer as well. “Okay,” he said. “Let me change clothes.”
“You can go like that.” He had great legs, and the T-shirt was snug enough to prove that his chest and arms were hard-muscled as well.
“With you looking like that? No, thanks.” He strode down the hall toward his bedroom, leaving her alone in the living room.
She wanted to just stand there, or take a seat, the way any woman waiting for a man to change clothes would. She wanted to consider the evening ahead and all its possibilities. Would dinner be comfortable, tense, romantic? Would he be interested in going for a drink afterward? Would he want to prolong their time together? Walk her to her door? Kiss her? Accept her invitation to come inside?
She didn’t want to look around the living room, searching for hiding places. She didn’t want to plan how to get him to confide the details of Daniel Wallace’s visit. She didn’t want to ask any questions or assess any answers for veracity or deception.
She wanted a simple dinner date with the man she was wildly attracted to. No job, no lies, no role-playing.
Listening to footsteps, then running water, she circled the couch to the bookcases. There was no desk in the living room, no file cabinet, no address book left carelessly on a table. Maybe he kept his personal records in the bedroom, in a closet or in the office at the coffee shop. What she was looking for-an address, a phone number, an e-mail address-could be concealed in so many ways that a thorough search might never reveal it. A note tucked inside the covers of a book or the case of a DVD. Information disguised as an account number. Data written in code. It could also have been memorized and destroyed. She could be searching for something that existed only in Joe’s brain.
Sighing, she flipped through the magazines stacked on the bookcase. Green Gourmet. Organic Grounds. Going Green for Small Businesses. Sustainability. Fascinating reading, she was sure. The bottom one was a glossy biking magazine touting Rocky Mountain views from a bike seat. The guy on the cover wore skin-tight clothing that displayed muscled calves to make a woman drool.
“Where do you-”
Liz turned as Joe broke off. He’d changed into gray trousers and a white shirt, tucked in, sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows. There was no way around it. The man was hot no matter what he wore.
She held up the magazine. “You planning a vertical bike trip through Colorado?”
His gaze shifted to the magazine and held for a moment before he shrugged casually. “It’s on my list of things to do. Are you ready, or would you rather read an interesting article on the most expensive coffee in the world? It’s in the top magazine in your right hand. They feed the coffee cherries to civets, then collect the beans after they pass through their digestive system. They say it’s very good. Sells for about $50 a cup.”
“After they pass through…Eww.” Suspiciously, she looked from him to the magazine. “You made that up.”
“Scout’s honor.” He crossed to her side, slid the Organic Grounds issue from her grip and flipped it open to a picture of a weasely-looking critter.
She scanned the article, then shoved all the magazines into his hands. “That’s just gross. Way more organic than I ever want to know about.”
He put the magazines away, then gestured toward the door. “I’m guessing you’re not walking far in those ridiculous-”
She shot him a look over her shoulder.
“-ly sexy heels, so we’re taking your car?”
“You can even drive if you want. If you remember how.”
“It hasn’t been that long,” he replied drily as he locked the door.
“That’s right. You borrow Mrs. Wyndham’s car for mysterious trips that you won’t talk about.”
“If I talked about them, they wouldn’t be mysterious, would they?”
She went through the heels-off-to-cross-the-grass routine again, then handed him the car keys. After opening the passenger door for her, he slid behind the wheel, adjusting the seat for his longer legs, then the mirrors and the steering wheel.
“Have you been to Chantal’s?” he asked as he backed out.
“No.” She’d seen it downtown, in the corner of a retail center tucked between River Road and the river, and thought it seemed more a couples kind of place.
“Good.”
Liz let a few blocks pass in silence, simply enjoying the moment, before taking a silent breath and asking, “How was the rest of your day? Any more distractions?”
For a time Joe’s gaze remained fixed on the street ahead. His hands were relaxed on the wheel, but his jaw was clenched. Finally, he glanced her way. “Yeah. One. A lawyer from Chicago. The Mulroneys want to invest in the coffee shop.”
“So if the money-laundering business dries up, they’ll have something to fall back on. And, totally separate from that, of course, you’ll just happen to volunteer your brother’s location.”
He nodded.
She gazed out the window, watching houses give way to businesses. No doubt about it. Daniel Wallace had balls. Approaching a witness’s brother so openly, and doing it himself rather than sending an underling so he could maintain deniability…Overconfidence? Faith that Josh wasn’t going to show up in court?
Maybe the Mulroneys knew Josh wasn’t going to testify because they’d had him killed. Maybe Wallace had come himself because, once Josh’s body was discovered, he could claim innocence for his clients. We were trying to locate Josh Saldana. Would we have bothered if we’d known he was dead?
Josh was a pain in the butt, a petty criminal, a sweet-talking charmer, irresponsible, infuriating, dishonest. But he was Joe’s brother. Dory and Ruben Saldana’s son. He deserved a lot, starting with a stint in prison and a megadose of reality, but he didn’t deserve to die.
The parking lot that fronted Chantal’s was full, so Joe parked on the street across the square from Ellie’s Deli. As they waited at the curb for a break in traffic on River Road, a car filled with teenage boys stopped to let them cross.
“Hey, chica, you look hot,” the front-seat passenger called. “Why don’t you come with us? We show you a good time.”
Liz gave him her brightest smile. Beside her
, Joe frowned and took her hand. “Those boys wouldn’t know what to do with you,” he muttered.
“Sometimes neither do you.”
“I know what to do with you. It’s what to do about you that I can’t figure.”
As they approached the hot-red awning that sheltered Chantal’s entrance, her hand warm and secure inside his, Liz understood exactly what he meant.
Chapter 9
After a twenty-minute wait for a table, Joe and Liz ordered their meals-his shrimp and scallops, hers fried catfish. They were seated on the deck that looked across the river, with torches providing flickering light. The scent of jasmine was heavy on the air, and water lapped at the shore. Turn up the heat, add some sand and a pitcher of piña coladas, and he could almost imagine a tropical paradise.
If he drank the whole pitcher first.
Liz leaned forward, arms resting on the wicker tabletop. “So tell me about this trip to Colorado.”
For an instant he drew a blank, but quickly the lie came back. When he’d gone into the living room and seen her holding the magazine-the magazine, the one he’d given so much thought to in the past few days-he’d gone cold. His first impulse had been to grab it out of her hands and hide it someplace far out of her reach. He’d even started toward her, but sense had kicked in before she’d been within grabbing range.
“It’s just something I’ve thought about,” he lied. Sure, he liked riding his bike, both for environmental reasons and because it was fun. But riding in Copper Lake, Georgia, elevation 150 feet, was a whole other world from Colorado’s 8,000 to 12,000-foot peaks. Building muscle on top of muscle in his legs and starving his lungs weren’t his idea of fun.
But he had to credit Josh with picking the right magazine to send his message. No one who knew him would give it a second thought. It was the sort of thing people expected to find in his house.
“You’re more ambitious than I am. I love the mountains, but riding a bike up and down one…” Settling back in her chair, she fanned her face languorously. “Makes me weak just to think about it.”
She was so gorgeous, relaxed, her curls shifting lightly in the breeze, so strong. She’d never seemed less weak in all the time he’d known her. He, on the other hand, was feeling pretty damn helpless. All he wanted to do was look at her, touch her, kiss her, make love to her. Forever.
“It’s going up the mountain that’s tough.” His voice was husky, scratchy. “Coming down’s just a matter of holding on.”
“What if you lose control?”
“You don’t let that happen.”
“But what if you do?”
They weren’t talking about bikes and mountains anymore. What would happen when they lost control? Who would be first to recover? Who would have the most to recover from? He wasn’t looking to get his heart broken, but if he was going to spend the next few years regretting something, better that it be something he did than something he didn’t do.
He’d already spent a long time regretting that he didn’t kiss her that night in Josh’s kitchen.
He made a stab at a smile. “Then you hold on tight while you look for a soft place to fall.”
She held his gaze a long time, but didn’t say anything. He couldn’t think of anything to say.
The waitress delivered their food, and they did the small-talk chatter that reminded him of too many first dates, when they were way past that stage. After clearing the table, the waitress offered coffee.
They declined, and ten minutes later, after refusing Liz’s offer to pay, he was putting his wallet back in his hip pocket as he followed her through the restaurant to the door. It was a brief but most enjoyable journey. That ass, those legs, damn, those shoes…He wanted to make love to her while she wore those and nothing else.
And he was going to. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, but definitely soon. It was either that or go totally freaking insane.
The night was cool as they strolled the sidewalk that curved around to the road, but Liz, in her sleeveless dress, didn’t seem to mind. Hot-blooded, Josh had described her.
Even thinking of his brother wasn’t enough to cool the need pulsing through him. As they approached the intersection, he took her hand. The first time it had been more of a claiming act, letting the smart-mouthed kid know she was with him. This time he did it because he needed to touch her. Because it felt good. Because, hell, she was with him.
“Thank you for dinner.”
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye-a blur of olive skin, black curls, red dress. “You’re welcome.”
“Can I buy you a drink someplace?”
He did look at her then, her eyes intense, expectant and cautious, before checking his watch. “No, thanks. But I’ll teach you how to make a killer cup of coffee if you’d like.” It was five after nine, and Raven was always gone by five till. Only the usual night-lights showed in the shop, offering them privacy as well as the best coffee in town.
Some women could be seduced by fine food, others by fine wine or cheap booze. Liz, he was pretty sure, could be seduced by fine coffee. He damn well knew he could be.
She smiled, and the caution faded from her gaze. “I would like that very much.”
They jaywalked through the square at a diagonal, coming out in front of the shop. He unlocked the door, then locked up again behind them. Still holding her hand, he led her behind the counter, then through the door into the storeroom, switching on only the light above the corner counter.
The space was small and cramped, but he could find anything he needed in no time. Dropping his hand, Liz turned in a circle, taking in his desk and file cabinet, sofa, cupboards and storage shelves. Everything there was recycled, reusable or came from renewable resources. “I expected great big bins of coffee. Where is it?”
“I get deliveries from a roastery in Augusta every day or two. Coffee starts to deteriorate right after it’s roasted. That’s why the mass-produced stuff on the grocery shelves doesn’t taste so hot. For the best coffee, you need fresh-roasted single-estate high-grown Arabica beans-” he held up the foil bag he’d opened that morning “-a burr grinder, cold filtered water and a machine. At home I usually use a French press, but because I don’t have a burner here to boil the water, I use an electric machine. It’s almost as good and very simple.” He beckoned to her. “Come here.”
Liz went to stand beside him, her perfume a sweet and spicy counterpoint to the beans’ rich, earthy aroma. He pulled her closer and wrapped her fingers around the measuring cup. “The ideal ratio is considered fifty-five grams of ground coffee to a liter of cold filtered water, but we’re doing only one cup and, like everything else, coffee has to be adjusted to your personal preferences.” He gestured to the sink on the right. “I’m going to show you my preferences.”
She turned on the faucet, filled the eight-ounce cup and carefully emptied it into the reservoir at the top of the coffee maker. Next came the grinder. “You grind it fresh for every cup?”
“Always.”
She took the foil-lined bag, unfastened it and drew a deep breath. “Mmm. Wonderful.” With her eyes closed, the dreamy expression on her face and the huskiness of her voice, she looked and sounded wonderful. She made him ache, but sometimes hurting felt good. “Is this single-estate, high-grown Arabica?”
“It is. It comes from El Salvador and is a blend of two very old Arabicas-Bourbon and Typica. The cafétos, or coffee trees, are grown at a thousand meters or higher on shade-covered hills. That makes the bean smaller.” He moved to stand behind her. “Denser.” Close enough now to smell the faint fragrance of her perfume. “Sweeter.”
Close enough that all she had to do was lean back an inch, maybe two, to bring their bodies together. Close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her. The need.
She drew another breath, a trying-to-regain-control sort of breath. “So I pour the beans in here?”
“Hmm.”
“How much?”
He brushed his mouth against her hair and
awareness rippled between them. “Just a few. Until I tell you to stop.”
Her hand trembled as she raised the bag over the grinder. She shook out the beans, two or three at a time, enough for three cups before he remembered to say stop. “That’s enough. Now pulse the beans.”
She lowered her hand to the base of the machine, but did nothing until he covered it with his own hand, guiding her index finger to the button, pressing it. The rattle of beans against burr was harsh, but it didn’t distract him. Like Pavlov’s dog, the sound of the coffee grinder never failed to make him eager for a taste, and tonight was no exception. Except it wasn’t Topéca Manzano he wanted to taste.
How had it gotten so warm in here? Liz wondered. The temperature must have risen by at least ten degrees in the past few minutes. Her body was hot. Her skin was damp. Even her hair was feeling the heat. She wanted to strip off her clothes, to strip off Joe’s, to get even hotter.
But all in good time…and this coffee-making lesson was definitely a good time.
He shifted until they were touching, his arms around her, his focus still-at least, partly-on the lesson. “You want to break up most of the bean so that more of it’s exposed to the brewing process. But if you grind it too fine, it’ll wash through the filter.” His mouth was near her ear now, soft rough sounds and warm breaths that made her shiver despite the fever burning through her.
She eased the tension holding her stiff and sagged, just a little, against him. Immediately he moved even closer, and immediately his arousal nudged against her. Her knees went weak at the sensation.
With great effort she tried to concentrate on her task, though she doubted she would remember any of the instructions in an hour’s time.
“The coffee grounds go here.” He opened a small, cone-shaped projection on the machine. “More than a tablespoon, less than a heaping tablespoon.”
Her hand shook as she scooped up the grounds, and he steadied it as he guided the spoon to the filter.
Criminal Deception Page 15
