NIGHT WATCH

by Carla Neggers

  As if Hank were reading his thoughts, he said, “Going to bed with her, yeah, maybe I could swallow him wanting to do that—but only in the context of exacting revenge.”

  Rowena reddened. Set down her glass hard. Swept to her feet. “I’m leaving,” she announced.

  Joe caught her by the wrist and held her still.

  Hank looked embarrassed. “No, wait, I’ll leave. I’m sorry, I should have been more subtle. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I’m not upset. You have every right—every duty— to discuss Mr. Tyhurst’s intentions. That doesn’t bother me. I’m annoyed, however, that you pretend I’m not even here, that my opinion of his intentions doesn’t count. I’ve spent more time with him than either of you.” She was so mad she was shaking. “I’ve probed his finances.”

  Hank raised an eyebrow and looked at Joe.

  “That’s tough to beat,” Joe said, straight-faced.

  Rowena would have thrown the rest of her wine at him if she weren’t so repressed. Lord knew he deserved it. Wouldn’t bother Mario, either. He’d probably applaud. But instead she satisfied herself with an ice-cold look at the two cops.

  Hank pushed back his chair, contrite. “Keep me posted. I’m—you remember what we discussed the other day?”

  The possible snitch, Joe thought. He remembered, and nodded.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Hank said. He mumbled a goodbye to Rowena and beat a path to the door before she could wrest herself from Joe’s hold and follow him out.

  “Let me go,” she said in a low voice.

  “You going to run away?”

  “I’m going to leave. That’s not running away.”

  Joe loosened his grip, stroking the inside of her wrist with his thumb. He saw her bite her lower lip. So, she wasn’t unaffected. But she wasn’t about to sit on his lap and run her fingers through his hair, either. “What about Mario’s eggplant parmesan?” he asked.

  “I’m sure he knows how trying you can be.”

  “He’ll be disappointed if you leave.”

  “But he would understand.”

  “You’d walk back to your castle by yourself?”

  “I could call a cab,” she said.

  “And pay him with what?”

  She glared at him. “I could make him wait on the curb, run inside, get some money and pay him. I have options, Sergeant, besides you.”

  “Sit down, Rowena. Have another glass of wine. Here, I’ll flag Mario and have him bring out a basket of bread.” Still holding on to her wrist, Joe got up halfway from his seat at the booth and yelled, “Hey, Mario, how ‘bout some of your special garlic bread?”

  Ordinarily Mario would have told him to go to hell or get it himself, but tonight Joe was with Rowena Willow and his cousin was smitten. He called from behind the bar, “Sure, coming right up.”

  “Never,” Joe said to her, “be rude to a man who makes garlic bread with fresh garlic and real butter.”

  Rowena raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s out of this world. Beats a currant scone with clotted cream hands down.”

  “We’ll see about that,” she said, deliberately haughty, not ready to give up. But she did sit down, and Joe released her.

  * * *

  After dinner, they took a direct route back to Telegraph Hill. It was mostly uphill, and by the time they reached her door, Rowena’s legs ached along with her mind.

  Joe Scarlatti was the most enigmatic man she had ever met. More elusive than the most complicated financial network she had ever unraveled. More frustrating.

  Certainly more alive. Indeed, he made her feel alive.

  How, she wondered, did she make him feel? She knew he’d tried to shut down his feelings as a result of his partner’s death. But he had too many friends, too close a family—they would keep him from closing himself up completely. Besides, he was a man who felt and felt deeply, no matter how hard he tried not to or how much he tried to deny it.

  He hadn’t, as Rowena had half expected, invited her upstairs to his apartment after dinner but instead had offered to walk her home. She’d retorted that she could walk herself home. He’d remarked in turn that she knew what he meant and if she wanted to walk all the way back to her mausoleum by herself, then fine. Did she have to pick apart every word he said? Lord, he muttered, but she was stubborn. Besides which, he had to fetch his truck.

  She’d relented, admitting to herself if not to him that she was glad for his company. It would have been a lonely walk without him.

  Until meeting him, she had not thought much about being lonely. Alone, yes. But not lonely. It was a fine, but important, distinction.

  He lingered on her doorstep while she fumbled for a key hidden in some exterior scrollwork. She noticed his frown in the lamplight. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “You should take your keys with you.”

  “Usually I do, but I didn’t want to be encumbered by a handbag or hip-pack—”

  “Someone could see you out here and help themselves to the place one day when you’re not home.” His gaze hardened. “Or when you are.”

  “I change my hiding place frequently.”

  “Doesn’t matter. They know a key’s hidden, they’ll find it.”

  She shivered at his ominous words. “How unpleasant. You’re dampening my optimistic view of human nature.”

  “I’m not a pessimist or a cynic, Rowena.”

  “Just a realist?”

  He said, “Yeah, just a realist.”

  She stuck her key in the door. “I’ll remember your advice. Thank you.” She hesitated. “Are you going home now?”

  He nodded curtly, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of the charcoal-colored sweater he’d grabbed from Mario’s kitchen, his cousin griping at him about what in hell it was doing there. “Good night, Rowena,” he said softly. “I enjoyed this evening.”

  “I did, too.”

  And she was inside, the door echoing as she shut it firmly behind her. She could hear Mega and Byte padding down the stairs to greet her, could hear the hissing of the old heating system as it struggled against the dropping temperature. Could hear her own ragged breathing.

  Tears sprang hot in her eyes.

  Joe Scarlatti had pulled back from her. He had decided that he had to be noble. Going to bed with a virgin, a woman who knew numbers and money and business, wasn’t his style. He wouldn’t use her and drop her.

  She had never been the kind of woman men came to for short-term liaisons. For one- or two-night stands. For sex. She had always been proud of not jumping into bed just to please a man. She had decided long ago that she would rather wait until she was ready than to get involved in a physical relationship just because a man expected or demanded it of her. A man who made such demands, she’d told herself, wasn’t worth the risks.

  Not that many had.

  But it had never occurred to her that when she was, in some unspecified, unpredictable future, ready, that the man she wanted wouldn’t, in turn, want her.

  But Joe Scarlatti did want her. She was sure of it! Then why weren’t they upstairs together?

  Was he trying to shove her out of his life because of his own problems? Because he didn’t want to feel again?

  She frowned, heading slowly upstairs. She would take a long bath scented with relaxing bath salts and tell herself that Joe had gone home tonight because the man was dead on his feet. She would tell herself over and over again, until finally she believed it.

  * * *

  Joe waited in the shadows just beyond the corner of Aunt Adelaide’s castle and watched Eliot Tyhurst finally emerge from his car and approach Rowena’s front door. She hadn’t, Joe was sure, spotted Tyhurst on their way down their street. But Joe had. It had meant not inviting himself in, not even kissing her good-night. He had thought he’d seen a flash of disappointment in her big eyes, but couldn’t dwell on that possibility now.

  Tyhurst was ringing her doorbell.

  After a full thirty seconds, Rowe
na still hadn’t answered her door. Tyhurst rang again.

  Then the door opened, and Joe’s heart nearly stopped when he heard Rowena’s voice. “Joe?” But she recovered quickly—he couldn’t see her, but could hear her recovery, her easy confidence. “Oh, Eliot! What a nice surprise.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” His tone was cold, even unfriendly. Joe tensed. “I saw you with your... friend.”

  “Did you? He and I are working on a project together—simultaneously, I should say. He’s an accountant.”

  A bloody accountant!

  “His name’s Joe. Would you like to come in?”

  “No, I—” Uncertainty had slipped underneath his voice, as if he’d just realized he didn’t have Rowena all figured out after all. Good luck, pal, Joe thought. You’re not alone on that one. Tyhurst went on, “I was feeling rather alone tonight and thought I’d ask you out for a drink. But if you’ve just come in...” He trailed off, leaving her to fill in the blanks.

  She did. “You’re right, I don’t feel like going out again. But would you like to come inside? I have a bottle of wine. I’d be happy to have a drink with you.”

  Tyhurst was beaming. ‘‘Thanks, that’d be great. You’re sure I’m not intruding?”

  “Not at all. I’ve been thinking about your proposition. I have a few ideas I’d like to contribute.”

  “Another time,” Tyhurst said, walking into the house of the woman who had cost him millions, his reputation and, for a while, his freedom. She had changed his life, and not for the better. “I’d like to keep this informal.”

  The heavy front door shut with a thud.

  And Joe Scarlatti let out a string of curses that prompted a well dressed couple out walking their poodle to cross to the other side of the street. Now what the hell was he going to do?

  “Whatever it takes, my friend,” he muttered to himself. “Whatever it takes.”

  Nine

  “Is there something wrong?” Eliot Tyhurst asked, sipping his glass of wine.

  “No, nothing,” Realizing she must seem preoccupied, Rowena forced a smile. She had not, wisely, she thought, poured herself a glass of wine. She had consumed quite enough at Mario’s. “I’ve concentrated so hard for so many hours today that I just feel a little spacy.”

  “I understand.”

  She wondered if he did. If anyone did—if anyone could. Maybe it was asking too much.

  He stood in front of the ornate rosewood fireplace in the parlor. She didn’t know why she persisted in bringing him in there instead of in the more bizarre—and off-putting—drawing room. Tyhurst turned back to her, his expression impossible to read. “So, you’ve considered my proposition.”

  “I’ve been giving it serious thought, yes.”

  “And have you decided, Rowena?” he asked softly, taking a step toward her. “Will you work for me?”

  She hesitated. She had no intention of actually working for him—that would be improper in her view—but if she put him off too soon, he might walk out of her life for good. That had a certain appeal on the one hand. On the other she wouldn’t be privy to any additional information that could lead her to understand more fully what his future plans were. He could be up to no good or he could genuinely be trying to give himself a fresh start. The idea that he was out for revenge seemed very farfetched. He’d had ample opportunity to go after her if he meant to.

  She did not need the protection of an action-oriented cop who specialized in violent crime. So what if Joe Scarlatti had gone home? Eliot Tyhurst wasn’t about to lay a hand on her.

  Finally she said, “I need more information.”

  He frowned. “Rowena, you must realize I can’t give you everything until we have an agreement. That would be too risky on my part. I trust you, but—”

  “I understand,” she said quickly. “I’m also concerned ... well, it’s not entirely clear to me you can afford my services so soon out of... after your ordeal.” Her words came out in a rush, and she suddenly wished she hadn’t had so much wine at dinner—and so much of Joe Scarlatti all day.

  “You mean you need to know if my troubles completely cleaned me out. You need to know I’m not broke.”

  There was a note of self-deprecation mixed with bitterness, which seemed to Rowena directed at himself rather than at her, the woman who had brought his financial machinations to the attention of the authorities.

  He let out a long exhalation. “Well, I admit I’m not as well off as I was in the past. And I know a lot of people in San Francisco think I should be on the streets, living in shelters and eating in soup kitchens. But I have some resources left.” He paused. Nothing in his tone or manner indicated any animosity toward her. “I can afford to hire you.”

  Rowena decided to confront him directly. “Eliot, do you hold a grudge against me?”

  “No, of course not.” He seemed taken aback but not offended. “I thought I’d made that clear already. If I hold a grudge against anyone, Rowena, it’s myself. But I’m trying to leave the past behind. It’s something I can’t change.”

  “But I’m part of your past. Why hire me? Why even return to San Francisco?”

  He moved toward her, everything about him radiating confidence, sensitivity, trust. He was handsome in a classic way, one that bespoke intelligence and power; Rowena could well understand how people had believed in him. She remembered how some, even with the evidence of his abuses before them, had resisted damning him for the thief and con man he was. But she felt no sparks when she was around him, none of the wild energy and thrilling tension she experienced when Joe Scarlatti was in the room.

  “San Francisco is my home,” he said simply. “It’s a part of me. Every day when I was in prison, I pictured its hills, the Golden Gate—” he smiled “—even the fog. It feels good to be back. If I have to go somewhere else to begin fresh-—if I can’t be accepted here—then okay, I’ll do it.”

  “But you feel you have to try here first,” she said.

  “That’s right. And as for you...” His smile faded, his blue eyes growing intense, and he stood just inches from her. “Rowena, I don’t think of you as just a part of my past. I like to think of you as a part of my present ... and future.”

  “You mean on a professional basis.”

  “Maybe it could be more.”

  Rowena shook her head. “Don’t. I want to believe you’ve changed, and I’m willing to give you a chance to prove yourself if that’s what you want. But that’s all I can offer. I can’t let you think—”

  “I understand. It’s much too soon for such talk.” His words were quiet and stiff, and she sensed his loneliness. He set his wineglass on a coaster. “I’d better be going. Good night, Rowena. Thank you for the wine, and the company.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She saw him to the door. Never the most sympathetic of women, Aunt Adelaide would have said the man had made his own bed; now he could lie in it. Rowena had to agree that she couldn’t take charge of his life. She couldn’t erase his past or take responsibility for it.

  And she couldn’t feign a romantic interest in him just to make him feel better.

  His languid eyes searched hers for a moment as he stood on her front stoop. Then he said curtly, “We’ll be in touch. Sleep well.”

  Rowena shut the door very firmly behind him and belatedly questioned her sense in having invited him inside to begin with. She hoped she hadn’t done it to get back at Joe for beating a path home, barely saying good-night to her. But that wasn’t her style. She might be eccentric, but she wasn’t self-destructive. She had invited Tyhurst in because she had wanted to know more about his true reasons for having looked her up so soon after his release from prison. And because she didn’t consider him a physical danger.

  She took the stairs two at a time up to her tower sun-room, feeling her self-control slipping. She was out of her element with Tyhurst and Scarlatti.

  Stumbling over pillows in the dark, she made her way to the windows overlooking the street a
nd stood so close her breath fogged up a circle on the glass.

  Her eyes, tired and strained, searched the dark street. She could see Tyhurst climbing into his high-priced foreign sedan, probably rented, halfway down the block. She felt neither sympathy nor revulsion, only a matter-of-fact sense of wonder at how he had changed her life: He had brought Joe Scarlatti into it.

  The expensive car, the streetlights reflected in its shiny exterior, pulled out into the quiet street. Rowena continued scanning, squinting through the fog of fatigue, wine and confusion. Was this what really living did to a woman?

  Suddenly she gasped. She stood very still and resisted the urge to back away from the windows. Joe’s battered truck was still parked where he’d left it that morning.

  Had he gone home without it? Or was he still out there somewhere in the dark? Doing what?

  Rowena swallowed in a tight, dry throat. He was there. She could feel his presence. Feel his eyes on her.

  Then she saw him.

  Slouched against a telephone pole in the shadows across the street a few yards down from his truck. Looking so confident and sexy and masculine.

  Watching her.

  Automatically, instinctively, Rowena took a step back from the windows. Could he see her? Was he just looking up at her tower, but unaware she was there?

  Tyhurst’s car disappeared down the street. Rowena supposed Joe would be next. He must have spotted Tyhurst and delayed his departure. Now surely he would climb into his truck and head back down to Mario’s Bar & Grill. Things would still be hopping there, not dead and silent as it was in the Willow house.

  She watched him walk back to his truck. But he didn’t climb in right away. Instead, he thumped the flat of his hand on the roof as if in impatience. With himself? Her?

  You think too much, Rowena. Ask too many questions. Just go with the moment, wait and see.

  He crossed the street in long strides, without looking.

  Rowena flew down the stairs, was on the second-floor landing when she heard the doorbell ring. She jumped the last three steps, landing lightly. But before opening the door, she forced herself to take a moment to catch her breath and push locks of hair that had fallen from their pins back behind her ears.