by J. D. Robb
It was only with one-to-one encounters with men she found herself shy and tongue-tied. But she was sure, she was positive, she’d be neither with Sebastian.
It was as if they were made for each other.
When the train jerked to an abrupt halt, and the lights dimmed, she was tossed unceremoniously against the burly black man wedged in beside her.
“Excuse me.”
“That’s cool, sister. Ain’t enough to you to put a dent in.”
“I wonder what’s wrong.” She tried to see through people, over them in the greenish wash of emergency lighting.
“Always some mess with this uptown train. Don’t know why they don’t fix the sumbitch.” He skimmed his gaze down her and up again. “You got you some date, doncha?”
“Yes. I hope we’re not delayed long or I’ll be late. I hate being late.”
“Look like you, guy’s not gonna mind a wait.” His friendly face went hard and cold, and sent Melissa’s heart bounding to her throat. “Brother, you wanna take your fingers off this lady’s purse, or I’m gonna break ’em into little pieces.”
Melissa jolted, snatched her purse around to press it to her belly. She glanced back and caught a glimpse of the small man in a dark trench coat as he slithered back into the jammed bodies.
“Oh. Thank you! Sometimes I forget to be careful.”
“Don’t pay to forget. You keep that purse close.”
“Yes, I will. Thank you again. I’m Melissa. Melissa Kotter.”
“Bruno Biggs. They just call me Biggs . . . ’cause I am.”
During the ten-minute delay, she chatted with him. She learned he worked in construction, had a wife named Ritz and a baby boy they called B. J. for Bruno, Junior. By the time they’d reached her stop, she’d given him the name of the restaurant where she worked and had invited him to bring his family in for dinner. As people gushed off the train, she waved and let herself be swept along by the current.
Bruno saw her trying to hurry along, her purse once again trailing behind her.
He shook his head and muscled his way off just before the doors closed.
Melissa broke free of the crowd and raced up the stairs. She was going to be late unless she ran the last three blocks. She made a dash for the corner. Something hit her from behind, low on the back, and sent her pitching forward. The strap of her purse snapped clean. She managed one short scream as she tumbled off the curb. There were shrieking brakes, shouts, then a bright, blinding pain as she hit the street.
She heard something else snap.
“Ms. Kotter? Melissa.” Bruno bent over her. “God almighty, sister, I thought you’d get yourself run over. Got this back for you.” He shook her purse.
“I—I forgot to be careful.”
“Okay now, okay. You need the MTs? How bad you hurt?”
“I don’t know . . . my arm.”
She’d broken the arm. And saved her life.
“Eight hundred and sixty-eight names.” Eve squeezed the bridge of her nose. “Just couldn’t be simple.”
“That doesn’t include building maintenance, or straight clerical.”
“This will do for now. We’ll focus on the ones your source lists as being reprimanded for recreational use, and those he remembers being named in any lawsuits. But we need to work with all of them. I need to separate them out—medical, administration, e-drones, lab techs. Divide them by age groups. Those with families, and the age of their children. Another list of any who were terminated during the project run.”
She looked up at him, the slightest glint in her eye.
“Have I just been demoted to e-drone?”
“You could do it faster.”
“Unquestionably, but—”
“Yeah, yeah, it’ll cost me. Pervert.” She considered, brightened. “Tell you what. We’ll do a trade. You give me a hand with this, and I’ll consult with you on whatever business deal you’re currently wheeling.”
He paled a little. “Darling, that’s so sweet of you. I couldn’t possibly infringe on your valuable time.”
“Coward.”
“You bet.”
“Come on, give me a shot. What have you got cooking?”
“I’ve a number of pots simmering just now.” He dipped his hands in his pockets and tried to think which project or negotiation currently on his plate she could poke into with the least possible damage.
Her desk ’link beeped.
“Saved, so to speak, by the bell.”
“We’ll get back to this,” she warned him.
“I sincerely hope not.”
“Dallas.”
“Lieutenant Dallas? Stefanie Finch. You’ve been trying to reach me?”
“That’s right. Where are you located?”
“Just got back to New York. Had the last couple runs cancelled. What can I do for you?”
“We need to have a conversation, Ms. Finch. In person. I can be there in twenty minutes.”
“Hey, listen. I just walked in the door. Why don’t you tell me what this is about?”
“Twenty minutes,” Eve repeated. “Stay available.”
She cut Stefanie off on an oath, snagged her weapon harness. “You happen to own Inter-Commuter Air?”
He was scanning the data on-screen and didn’t look over. “No. Their equipment’s old and will cost ten to fifteen hundred million to replace and/or repair. They’re operating in the red, and have been for the last three years. Poor customer service record that’s heading for a PR nightmare. They’ll be finished in a year, eighteen months on the outside.” He glanced over now. “Then I’ll buy them.”
“You wait till they roll over dead.” She pursed her lips. “Good plan, but it nixes the idea of taking you along so you can put the elbow on an employee. I’ll tag Peabody. The uniform’s always a nice touch.”
“Agreed, and so’s that robe. But you might want to put your boots back on.”
She frowned down at herself. “Shit.” She grabbed the boots and trotted out. “See you later.”
Stefanie didn’t pretend to be pleased. She opened the door and led with a scowl. “ID,” she snapped.
Eve flipped open her badge, holding it out while Stefanie took a good, long look. “I’ve heard about you. The cop who hooked Roarke. Nice job.”
“Gee, thanks. I’ll let him know you said so.”
Stefanie merely jerked a thumb toward Peabody. “What’s with the uniform?”
“My aide. Do we come in, Stefanie, or do we discuss this in the hallway?”
Stefanie stepped back, closed the door behind them. “I just had two lucrative runs cancelled, my union rep is talking strike, which is going to put me in a bind. The shuttle they stuck me with should’ve been in the fucking scrap heap, and my gut’s telling me I could be out of a job within the year.”
“He never misses,” Eve muttered.
“I’ve got a cop hounding me to Europe and back, so I’m in a pisser of a mood, Lieutenant. If this is about my bastard ex, I’ve got one thing to say: He’s not my problem.”
“I’m not here about your bastard ex. You’ve been corresponding, via e-mail, with an individual who calls himself Wordsworth.”
“How do you know? E-mail’s private.”
“The individual who calls himself Wordsworth is a suspect in two murders and one attempted murder. Now, do you want to do a dance about the violation of cyber-privacy?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Peabody, look at my face. Is this my jokey face?”
“No, sir, Lieutenant.”
“Now that we’ve cleared that up, why don’t we sit down?”
“I’ve got a date with him tomorrow afternoon,” Stefanie said, and hugged her arms as if chilled. “When my runs were cancelled, I did some e-mail from the pilot’s lounge at Heathrow. He suggested we get together tomorrow for a picnic in Greenpeace Park.”
“What time?”
“One o’clock.”
He’s breaking pattern, Eve thoug
ht. Upping the stakes again. “Sit down, Stefanie.”
“You’re sure about this.” Stefanie sat, stared up at Eve. “Yeah, you’re sure. I bet that’s your dead-certain face. Well, I’m embarrassed and I feel like the world’s biggest idiot.”
“And you’re alive,” Eve told her. “I’m going to keep you that way. Describe Wordsworth for me.”
“Physically, I don’t have a clue. He’s an art dealer. International. Digs opera, ballet, poetry. I was looking for some class. My ex was an amoeba. If it wasn’t Arena Ball it wasn’t worth talking about. I supported the worthless bastard the last six months we were together. Bailed him out twice on drunk and disorderlies, then he . . .”
She trailed off. “Apparently, I still have issues. Point is, I was looking for his opposite. Somebody with some polish who could do more than grunt when he wanted another beer. I guess I was looking for a little romance.”
“And he said all the right things.”
“Bingo. If it’s too good to be true, it’s probably a big, fat lie. Looks like I forgot that motto. But a picnic in the park, middle of the damn day, you’d think that would be safe. I can handle myself,” she added. “I bench-press one twenty. I’m a fifth degree black belt. I’m nobody’s victim. No way he’d take me down.”
Eve sized her up and agreed. Under most conditions, the woman could probably handle herself just fine. “He plans to drug you, with a very potent sexual illegal. You’d bring him back here because you’d think it’s your call. He’d light candles, put on music, give you more laced wine. He’d sprinkle pink rose petals on the bed.”
“Bullshit.” But she’d gone white. “That’s bullshit.”
“You wouldn’t think of it as rape while it happened. You’d do everything he told you to do. When he gave you the second drug, you’d lap it right up for him. While your system overloaded, your heart would give out; you wouldn’t even know you’re dead.”
“You want to scare me?” Stefanie got to her feet, paced. “You’re doing a damn good job.”
“That’s right. I want to scare you. That’s what he plans, that’s what might have happened tomorrow afternoon. But it’s not going to happen because you’re going to do exactly what I tell you.”
Stefanie lowered into a chair again. “He doesn’t know where I live. Tell me he doesn’t know where I live.”
“He probably does. He’s spent some time watching you. Get any flowers lately?”
“Oh Jesus. Pink roses. The son of a bitch sent me pink roses yesterday. In my quarters in London. I hauled them home with me. They’re in the bedroom.”
“Would you like me to dispose of them for you, Pilot Finch?” Peabody asked.
“Dump them in the recycler.” Stefanie rubbed her hands over her face. “I’m shaking. I piloted that death trap across the Atlantic, and I’m sitting here shaking. I was feeling pretty pumped about meeting him. Imagined I’d start this really nice, satisfying relationship. The bastard ex is looking better all the time.”
“You’re not going to speak or contact anyone about this. As far as Wordsworth is concerned, you’re meeting him tomorrow. Were there any plans to confirm the date?”
“Only to cancel. I was to let him know by noon if I had to cancel.”
“Stand up a minute.”
When Stefanie obeyed, Eve rose as well, circled her, judged build, height. “Yeah, two can play the disguise game. When we’re done here, you can play it two ways. You can pack what you need and I’ll arrange to have you put in a safe house tonight. Or if you want to stay here, I’ll have a couple of cops stay over with you. Either way, you’ll sleep better.”
“Oh yeah, I’ll sleep like a baby tonight.”
Eve wasn’t the only one putting in overtime. McNab was on a mission of his own. He’d fueled himself up for it with two bottles of home brew, which were currently burning at his stomach lining. He wasn’t drunk. He’d stopped short of getting drunk. Because he wanted to be clear-headed when he kicked Charles Monroe’s pansy ass.
Unaware he’d become the target of a jealous and slightly queasy e-detective, Charles nibbled on Louise’s fingers. They were sharing a late supper in his apartment.
“I appreciate you agreeing to start the evening so late.”
“We both have odd schedules. It’s wonderful wine.” She sipped. “Wonderful food. And I like your home very much. More than a restaurant.”
“I wanted you to myself. I’ve wanted you to myself all day.”
“I told you I haven’t had much luck with relationships, Charles.” She rose to wander to the windows. “I’m single-minded, driven, and haven’t given any relationship I’ve been in the attention it needs. Deserves.”
“I think your luck’s about to change.” He turned her to face him. “I know mine has. Louise.” He lowered his head, skimmed his lips lightly over hers, once, then twice, drawing her in. He circled her into a dance, deepening the kiss when her arms came around him. Bringing her closer when she trembled.
“Come to bed with me,” he whispered. “Let me touch you.”
Her head fell back as his mouth trailed along her throat. “Wait. Just . . . wait. Charles.” She eased back. “I’ve thought about this. I spent entirely too much time thinking about this today, and last night. Since I first saw you. Part of my problem is overthinking things.”
She stepped away, needing a little distance. “There’s such a pull. I haven’t felt a pull like this . . . ever,” she managed. “But I’m not going to bed with you. I can’t.”
He kept his eyes on hers, nodded slowly. “I understand. It’s difficult for you to accept the idea of being intimate with me.”
“Difficult,” she said with a half laugh. “No, I wouldn’t say difficult.”
“You don’t need to explain. I know what I am.”
She shook her head. “What you are?”
“Licensed companions don’t generally have a lot of luck with personal relationships either. Not real ones in any case.”
“I’m sorry.” She held up a hand. “You think I won’t have sex with you because you’re a professional? Charles, that insults both of us.”
He walked back to the table, picked up his wineglass. “I’m confused.”
“I don’t want to sleep with you now because it’s happening too fast. Because I think what I’m feeling for you goes deeper than that, and I’d like a chance to find out before . . . I’d just like to slow down a bit. I’d like to spend more time getting to know each other. I wouldn’t be here now if what you did for a living was a problem for me. And if you think I’m so petty and narrow-minded that I’d—”
“I could fall in love with you.”
It stopped her short, stole her breath, just the quiet way he said it. “I know. Oh God, I know. Me, too. It scares me a little.”
“Good, because it scares me a lot.” He crossed back to her, lifted her hand. “We’ll slow down.” Kissed it. Then her wrist. Drawing her in again, he brushed his lips over her temple, her cheeks.
Her pulse spiked. “This is slowing down?”
“We won’t go any faster than you want.” He tipped her face back and smiled. “Trust me, I’m a professional.”
And while she laughed, the buzzer sounded.
“Give me ten seconds to get rid of whoever that is. And remember my place.”
When he opened the door, McNab shoved him back a step. “Okay, you son of a bitch. We’re going a round.”
“Detective—”
“Who the hell do you think you are?” McNab shoved him again. “You think you can treat her that way? Rub your next skirt right in her face?”
“Detective, you don’t want to lay hands on me again.”
“Oh yeah?” Maybe the second bottle hadn’t been such a good idea, he thought vaguely, but gamely lifted his fists. “Let’s try these instead.”
“Detective McNab.” Calmly, Louise stepped between them. “You’re obviously upset. Maybe you should sit down.”
“Dr. Dimatto.” Flust
ered, McNab lowered his fists. “I didn’t see you over there.”
“Charles, why don’t you make some coffee. Ian . . . it’s Ian, isn’t it? Let’s sit down.”
“Beg your pardon, but I don’t want any goddamn coffee and I don’t want to sit down. I came to kick his ass.” He jabbed a finger at Charles over her shoulder. “I’m sorry you’re in the middle. You’re a nice woman. But I’ve got business with this son of a bitch.”
“I’m assuming this has to do with Delia.”
As Charles stepped away from Louise, McNab rounded on him. “Damn right. You think because you take her to the fucking opera and fancy restaurants you’ve got a right to toss her over when something more interesting comes along?”
“No, I don’t. Delia means a great deal to me.”
Literally seeing red, McNab swung out. His punch found its target, had Charles’s head snapping back. He followed through with a short-armed jab to the belly before Charles recovered enough to fight back.
While they circled each other, ramming fists, spilling blood, Louise fled the room. They were rolling on the floor, in a sweaty, grunting heap when she came back. And threw a full bucket of ice water over them.
“That’s just about enough.” She slammed the bucket down, slapped her hands on her hips as both of them gaped up at her. “You should be ashamed. Both of you. Fighting over a woman like she was a juicy piece of meat. If either of you think Peabody would appreciate this, you’re very much mistaken. Now, on your feet.”
“He’s got no right to hurt her,” McNab began.
“I wouldn’t hurt Delia for anything in the world. And if I have, I’ll do everything I can to make it up to her.” Charles scooped back his dripping hair. He was getting the picture now. “For Christ’s sake, you moron, have you told her you’re in love with her?”
“Who said I was?” His bruised face went sheet white. “I’m just looking out for . . . shut up. She wants to roll with you when you’re working other skirts, that’s her business. But she’s not a job.” He pointed at Louise.
“That’s right. She’s not.”
“And nobody juggles Peabody that way.”
“Look, obviously you’re under the impression that Delia and I have been—”
