He studied her with a hard stare for a moment. Then he sighed. “Okay, but only a couple. You can’t afford to put this off. You ask me, that Arturo guy is seriously whacked.”
BRUNO WAS SEVERAL miles away, on the downtown side of the neighborhood he’d just left, when the fact that he’d screwed the pooch hit him like a bullet from a sniper’s rifle. He didn’t need to debate it; he wasn’t misinterpreting the facts. And there were no do-overs.
He’d fucked up, big-time.
He should have thought things through more thoroughly before giving in to the impulse to run the girl down. Either that, or done a better job of actually running her down. Because it occurred to him now that if Capelli hadn’t already told the cop what she’d seen that night in the U district, he’d just removed any incentive for her to keep her mouth shut.
Shit. He should have stuck to his first impression when he’d learned about the kid’s old man: that she’d had a goddamn compelling example of what happened to people who talked out of turn. But hearing the boy on that damn television spot mention a Robbery cop on the art project Capelli was part of had thrown him off his stride. Made him feel she’d betrayed his generosity.
And he’d maybe overreacted.
Shitfuckshit. He turned around at the next light and headed back, knowing he was a good six or seven miles away and likely too late to track her this afternoon.
On the other hand, she probably wasn’t moving as swift as usual. She sure as shit wouldn’t be moving at the speed she’d sprinted to get that blond woman, who would have been unfortunate collateral damage, out of his way. Swear to God the kid could be a contender if she ever decided to try out for an Olympic track and field event.
He shook his head impatiently. This was no time to go off on a tangent. His point was, there was a chance Capelli was still where he’d left her.
And this time he’d keep up with her. He would finally discover where the hell she lived.
And if that somehow didn’t happen today? Then he’d goddamn see to it that it happened tomorrow or the next day.
Because he’d set the clock ticking this afternoon. Had wedged himself solidly between a rock and a hard place. Either the cops were going to be looking for him. Or Schultz would hear that he’d disregarded his order to leave the kid be.
And of the two?
He’d just as soon take his chances with the cops.
JASON ASKED Poppy more than once, on the drive to her apartment, if she was all right. She wouldn’t have minded that so much, since it was always nice knowing someone worried about your welfare. But he generally followed his solicitousness up with “Who do you know who could have done this?” And when she said, “No one,” he urged, “Think, Poppy. It’s important.”
She knew that, dammit. But she didn’t know anyone who had a reason to hurt her. So finally she rested her head against the passenger-side window and pretended to doze so she wouldn’t have to keep addressing his questions.
Because how do you answer the unanswerable when the response you have given isn’t even a hundred-percent true? Well, it was in the sense she was fine, physically—she’d seen worse scrapes on a playground full of kindergartners. But on the emotional front?
She was a wreck.
She knew she should probably call her parents. Let them know what had happened, both to her and to her dad’s ladder.
But she wasn’t quite up to the task. Not when she knew Mom would immediately get on the horn and spread the news. And that she and Dad would then descend on her with homemade chicken soup and a lot of TLC.
Not that the last part wouldn’t be just what the doctor ordered.
But Aunt Sara—who was actually no relation but still family—would also show up with her crystals and her tarot cards. In the ordinary run of things Poppy would enjoy that, but she simply wasn’t up to it today. Not to mention Uncle Bill, who was Aunt Sara’s partner of thirty years and one of Poppy’s all-time favorite people in the world. She knew he would accompany Auntie Sara—no doubt bearing one of his personal pan-size brownies that he’d have thrown together, complete with a healthy dose of marijuana, at the last minute.
To be baked in Poppy’s own kitchen, no doubt, as he wouldn’t want to waste time if he felt she was in need of his support. She sighed against the cool glass.
Because she could just imagine Mr. Law and Order’s reaction to that. Uncle Bill would probably be in the slammer before you could say, “Call the bondsman.”
That was her last thought before drifting to sleep for real. She didn’t awaken until Jason parked on the street in front of her apartment building. He’d shut down the engine and climbed from the car before she even lifted her head off the glass. As he rounded the hood she surreptitiously swiped her thumb and index finger down the corners of her lips, thinking, Please, God, don’t let there be drool.
He opened her door and squatted down in front of her. “You want me to carry you?”
Yessss. “No, of course not,” she murmured, angling her knees toward the door in preparation to swing her legs out. Still, she half expected him to ignore her demurral. His rules of behavior seemed to be governed by such rigid values.
He merely shrugged, however, and rose to his feet in an easy, economical motion. He extended a long-fingered hand to her. Sliding her own across his palm, she tried to ignore the wash of skin-against-skin heat that wrapped her in awareness as he gently hoisted her from the seat.
Because that’s all she needed to round out her day, a case of the do-mes with a guy determined not to. God knew he’d told her every way there was to tell a woman that he didn’t mix business and pleasure. Never, ever, ever.
She got it already.
So she wasn’t going there. It would be faster and less humiliating to just borrow his gun and shoot her little toe off than to embarrass herself in that arena again.
“Here, why don’t you lean on me?” He reached out as if to pull her to his side, but she stepped away.
“Thanks, I’m good.”
He gently cupped her elbow, instead. Giving the ancient elevator a doubtful look, he nevertheless led her over to it. It opened right away, since it was almost always on the first floor as hardly anyone in the building trusted its inconsistent “in order” record.
She should have avoided it now, as well. But it was too late, so she stepped aboard, then stood as far away from him as she could. Which, considering the car was the size of a broom closet, wasn’t nearly as far as she would have preferred.
It was as if her near brushes with mortality had made her supersensitive. Well, okay, she knew mortality was probably a stretch for what had been a quick ride down the ladder and kissing the sidewalk beneath the weight of a hundred-and-twenty-pound girl as a ton of screaming metal flashed by.
Then again: a ton of screaming metal.
So maybe not.
They had to be accidents, though. Jason’s I’m-notbig-on-coincidence to the contrary, she didn’t know anyone who bore her that sort of enmity.
The elevator slid to a bumpy halt and the doors opened. Jason walked her the few steps to her apartment, then took her keys from her and let them in.
“You want something to drink or some aspirin or anything?”
“I can get it. You don’t have to stay, Jason. I’m going to take a shower then probably take a nap. I’ll call my folks a little later.”
“You go ahead and start your shower,” he said. “I’ll just make sure your place is secure.”
“Okay.” She headed for the bathroom, but then paused to look back at him. “Thank you. For bringing me home and…well, everything.”
Their eyes locked for a long moment. But true to form, she felt her libido start to spark, while he only said, “Not a problem.”
She went into the bathroom, locked the door, then shook a couple of aspirin from the bottle in the medicine chest. She washed them down with so many Dixie cups of water the little paper receptacle started falling apart at the seams. Tossing it in the wastebaske
t, she climbed in the tub. She pulled the curtain, turned on the shower, then adjusted the water temperature until clouds of steam began to billow.
Ten minutes later, she climbed out, feeling cleansed in ways that went deeper than simply having removed the parking lot and sidewalk grime. She wrapped her freshly shampooed hair in a towel, patted herself dry and dabbed ointment on her scrapes. Then she moisturized from head to foot and finally began to feel halfway human. Maybe she’d complete the transformation by pouring herself a glass of wine, then call her mom.
The air out in the hall felt cool after the steamy bathroom when she stepped out a few minutes later, and she zipped her favorite threadbare gray hoodie over a white tank top that she’d paired with equally raggedy gray sweats. She considered detouring to the bedroom to grab a pair of socks.
Wine first, she decided. Then socks. She strode into the living room.
Then stopped short at the sight of Jason sprawled out on her couch. He’d kicked off his shoes and his head rested on one of her throw pillows against the arm of the couch. One long leg stretched the length of the cushions, its stocking-clad foot propped on the far arm. His other leg spilled over the edge, the angle of that foot against the floor cocking his leg in such a way that she could see he dressed to the left.
She hastily redirected her attention upward. His arm was thrown over his eyes and she approached him cautiously. Had he fallen asleep?
Apparently not, for when she was a mere foot away he lowered his arm and looked up at her. His gaze traveled from her terry turban to her bare toes, then back up again in a quick, comprehensive assessment. “You look like you’re feeling better.”
“What are you doing here?” Dammit, the shower had helped wash away that confusing, unwelcome mixture of lust and frustration she felt every time she was around this man. But she looked at him lying there, with his rolled-up sleeves, loosened tie, dangerous—if holstered—gun and even more dangerous eyes, and it came roaring back, stronger than ever. She shoved her fists into her hoodie’s shallow pockets.
“You didn’t really think I was going to just walk away and leave you here defenseless, did you?”
She blinked at him, dragging her attention back from an unbidden fantasy of ripping his shirt open hard enough to make buttons fly. Stop it, stop it, stop it! Furious with herself, she took it out on him. “I have told you and told you, I don’t need defending!”
“No, you’ve told me you don’t know of anyone who would want to hurt you,” he corrected, sitting up in a lithe movement that looked effortless but had to take abs of steel to pull off. His knee brushed hers as he swung around to put both feet on the floor, and electricity zinged up her thighs.
She stepped back. “Same thing.”
“Not even close.” He rose to his feet and she backed even farther away. “Maybe I should call the station—get a policewoman to stay with you until we can figure this thing out.”
She knew it was contrary to be angry about him not wanting to be here himself when all she wanted was to see his backside going out her door. But, oh, man, he couldn’t wait to be shed of her, could he? She stopped retreating and took a hot step forward. “Read my lips, de Sanges. I. Do. Not. Need. Police. Protection. I can take care of myself!”
His eyebrows lowered. “Oh, yeah. I can see you’re all kinds of tough.”
“I’m plenty tough!”
A temper where she was accustomed to seeing a carefully controlled expression snapped in his eyes. “Well, let’s test that theory, whataya say? Let’s pretend I’ve just broken in and I’ve got it in my mind to kill you because—” He shook his head. “Well, we don’t really know why, do we? Maybe simply because you’re so goddamn stubborn.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “But first, I’m going to have a little fun. You might not think it’s a whole lot of fun, but, hey, what do I care? I’m a fuckin’ psychopath.”
The way he stared at her with flat, dark angry eyes, he looked like a psychopath. Goose bumps ran down her spine and the backs of her thighs. “You’re scaring me, Jason,” she whispered.
“Why? You’re plenty tough, remember? So what are you gonna do?” He feinted at her, and with a burst of fury that he was deliberately trying to frighten her she ran for her tote, with its little canister of pepper spray. He wanted to act like this was real? She’d show him real!
Except, she wasn’t tough at all. Hell, she wasn’t even fast. She didn’t get a full yard away before he swept her feet out from under her. She tumbled to the floor and in a flash, he’d dropped down, rolled her over and had her pinned, her wrists stapled by his long hands to the aged fir on either side of her head.
He was hot and heavy and smelled of worked-up man. Fear disappeared and lust took its place. God, she wanted, wanted, wanted him.
“So what are you gonna do now, hotshot?” he demanded. But his eyes were suddenly wary.
She closed her own eyes and gave her lips a nervous lick, praying she wouldn’t embarrass herself. She had done that too many times with him already.
Then feeling him grow still atop her, she snuck a peek upward. He was staring at her lips, but he slowly raised his gaze to meet hers.
“Damn you,” he growled in a low, hoarse voice. Then slammed his mouth over hers.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I always thought I was pretty hip when it came to sex. Thought I knew. Man. I didn’t know squat.
THE TASTE Jase’d had of Poppy that evening she’d brought him dinner had been way too meager. He might have fooled himself otherwise, but it only took a hint of her flavor now for every remnant of good sense to collapse beneath the white-hot fingers of lust spearing like sheet lightning through his veins.
Propping himself over her just enough to keep his weight from crushing her into the wooden floor, he burrowed his hands under the towel wrapped around her hair. Its turban-tuck promptly unraveled and the cloth spilled in a ruby-colored waterfall, pooling on the floor beneath her head. Poppy’s damp curls tumbled free from their confinement. Plunging his hands into them, he was only vaguely aware of the clinging strands that wrapped around his fingers.
Because in that same instant her lips opened under his. His focus shifted, honing in like a high-tech missile on the heat, the taste, the textures of her mouth as his tongue plunged in to stake its territory.
With a sigh of pleasure that flowed sweet and soft from her mouth to his, she countered the thrust with a silky stroke of her tongue, its slow, sinuous twine laying claim to some territory of its own.
“Ah!” Breath exploding, he tunneled his fingers deeper into her curls, gripping her head and tipping it back so he could kiss her with even fiercer intent.
He wanted deeper, closer, wanted to climb inside of her and never come out. He wanted…
Christ. He had settled all his weight on her and was crushing her breasts beneath the inflexible press of his chest. His thighs, wedged between her own, had wid ened, spreading hers open while he rocked and swiveled his hips, thrusting and rubbing against the warm damp furrow between her legs.
For God’s sake, man, she had a ladder collapse out from under her today. Not to mention she’d damn near been run down by a speeding car, which—according to Henry, at any rate—had been deliberately driven right at her. And here he was, grinding her into a hard floor while dry-humping her like a teenager with his first shot at getting lucky.
Was he a prince or what?
Ripping his mouth free, he pushed up on his palms, his head hanging low and his breath sawing like he’d run a four-minute mile.
A dissatisfied little hum purled out of Poppy’s throat and her lashes slowly raised. Licking her lips, she blinked up at him with a hazy lack of comprehension. But her dark, liquid eyes cleared as they focused on him. And her brow furrowed.
She raised one hand and touched it to his jaw, then trailed her fingertips down his throat to his collar.
Where she abruptly wrapped her fist around his tie and yanked, dragging his face so close to her own they were all but nose-t
o-nose. Her eyes flashed a dire warning. “You better not be thinking of leaving me high and dry again,” she whispered.
“No,” he answered honestly, even though he knew it would be best all around if he did precisely that. “I should, but I just don’t have the chops. My willpower’s toast.” And how the hell this five-foot-five package of curls and attitude had managed to drain him of it he couldn’t say.
Neither, however, could he prevent himself from brushing the backs of his fingers down her soft, soft skin from temple to jaw. “You’ve had a rough day, though, and I thought you might appreciate moving this show to a soft bed.” Then he raised his eyebrows at her. “Still, if you’d prefer sex on a hard floor…”
She grimaced. “No. Now that you mention it, I’m kind of feeling my various bumps and bruises. A bed sounds like a real good plan.”
He pushed up off her, then leaned back down to extend a hand, pulling her to her feet when she slid her fingers into the cup of his palm. Their eyes met and held, and he lowered his head to kiss her again.
Mistake. He realized it the minute he found himself waltzing her over to the small dining table and bending her backward as he prepared to sweep everything atop it onto the floor so he could get her horizontal. He pulled her back upright. Straightened the gray hoodie his arm had gripped into creases along the small of her back.
Man, what was it about her? He got anywhere near those lips and all his circuits fried, reducing him to nothing more than impulses and nerve endings. “Sorry,” he muttered.
She grinned at him. “Yeah, women just hate it when a guy loses all control over them.” She cocked her head at his feet. “Lose the gun.”
“I’m happy to take it off, but I don’t leave it behind. It goes where I go.”
“That would be down there.” She led him to her bedroom.
Stopping moments later next to her bed, which was piled high with those incomprehensible little girlie pillows women seemed to get off on, she pointed to the end table, then looped her arms around his neck as soon as he set his gun on it. “Whataya say we try this again?”
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