Something About You

by Julie James

  “I can take it from here, officer. Thank you.”

  At the sound of Jack’s voice, both Cameron and the police officer Slonsky had substituted for Kamin and Phelps turned. She watched as Jack strode down the escalator.

  “Thank you, Agent Pallas, but there’s no need,” she replied coolly. “I’ll stick with Officer Zuckerman until Kamin and Phelps arrive.”

  Jack ignored her and showed his badge to Zuckerman. “Jack Pallas. You spoke with my partner on the phone a few minutes ago, so you’re aware that the FBI has jurisdiction over the investigation Ms. Lynde is involved in. I’ll make sure she gets home safely.”

  Cameron watched as Officer Zuckerman nodded and wished her a good night. After he left, she glared at Jack. “Why did you do that?”

  “Because we’re not finished with our conversation.”

  “Believe me, we’re finished.”

  He shook his head. “No.” He moved toward her, close enough that Cameron had to tilt her head back to look at him.

  “What did you mean, when you said that I saw what I wanted to see that morning?” He studied her face, searching for answers. “What else should I have seen?”

  Cameron held her ground. “If this is some kind of interrogation technique, it’s not working.”

  “I’m awfully good at this when I need to be, you know.”

  “How fortunate then that I don’t plan for us to do a lot of talking.”

  “Maybe you’ll warm up to the idea on the way home.”

  It took Cameron a second to catch that. “I’m not going home with you.”

  Jack nodded. “I already called Kamin and Phelps and told them to meet us at your house.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you, we’re not finished with our conversation.” He smiled slightly. “What’s wrong? Don’t trust yourself around me?”

  Cameron raised an eyebrow. Hardly. “Fine. Let’s get this over with. Where’s your car?”

  “Parked on the street in front of my apartment.” He pointed behind her. “We’re taking that.”

  Cameron turned and saw a motorcycle parked in front of the building. She was no expert on motorcycles—far from it—so later when Collin interrupted her at this point as she recounted the details of the evening to ask her five thousand damn questions about what kind of motorcycle Jack drove, the best she could tell him was that, no, it wasn’t a Harley, and no, it wasn’t one of those crotch-rocket sport bikes either.

  It was silver and black, and it was definitely a bad-boy bike, she decided as she looked it over. But bad-boy in a refined, understated sort of way. It suited Jack well.

  But still. It was a motorcycle.

  “I’m not getting on that,” she told him.

  “Never been on a bike before?” he guessed.

  “Ah, no. Not my thing.”

  “How do you know they’re not your thing if you’ve never been on one?”

  “For starters, they’re dangerous.”

  “Not in the right hands.” Jack walked over to the motorcycle and climbed on.

  Cameron had a retort ready, but it died on her lips. Holy shit, he looked ridiculously hot on the bike.

  Jack nodded. “Come on—let’s go.”

  She walked over. “How am I supposed to ride that thing in a dress?”

  He didn’t so much as blink. “That slit at your thigh should do the trick.”

  So.

  He’d noticed the slit of her dress.

  Cameron hiked up her dress and climbed on, showing a lot of leg in the process. Oops. She adjusted her jacket to cover up, wondering how much Jack had seen. From the look on his face when she glanced up, he’d seen plenty.

  “Oh yeah—the dress works just fine,” he said with a warmer gleam in his eyes than she was used to seeing.

  Cameron looped her purse around her wrist and settled it into her lap. She searched around the seat for her handles. “What do I hold on to?”

  “Me.”

  How convenient. “Maybe I should just stick with Phelps and Kamin,” she said nervously.

  “Too late to back out now.” Jack reached around her and pulled a helmet off the back of the seat. “You never know, maybe you’ll surprise yourself and actually like it.” He handed her the helmet. “Put this on.”

  “What about you?” she asked.

  “I’ll get by.”

  At least it would make him drive more carefully. Or so she hoped. She slid the helmet over her head as Jack fired up the engine with a loud roar. Without thinking, she grabbed his waist and slid closer to get a better grip.

  Before they took off—since these could very possibly be her last words—she flipped up the helmet visor and leaned forward to speak over the bike’s engine. “Don’t do anything crazy. I’m the maid of honor in my friend Amy’s wedding, and she’ll kill me if I have to be wheeled down the aisle in a body cast. Plus I got these new four-inch heels just for the occasion and they will not go well with crutches.”

  She flipped the visor down.

  Jack spun around in his seat and flipped the visor back open. “Don’t worry—since it’s your first time, I’ll be extra gentle.” With a wink, he flipped the visor shut.

  She flipped the visor back open. “Nice innuendo. Am I supposed to be charmed by—”

  Jack reached around and cut her off by flipping the visor shut again. “Sorry, no more talking, it distracts the driver.”

  From behind the helmet, Cameron clamped her mouth in frustration. If he killed them both on the stupid bike, it was really going to piss her off that she didn’t at least get the last word in.

  But as they drove away from the building, her fear of motorcycles quickly surpassed her annoyance with Jack. She wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. They drove down Michigan Avenue for less than half a block before pulling to a stop at the light that would take them onto Lake Shore Drive. Through the helmet visor, she watched as the light for the cross street turned yellow, then red, and she closed her eyes as their signal turned green and they took off at a breathtaking speed.

  When she opened her eyes, they were shooting through the Oak Street underpass, then suddenly they were up and out in the open air with nothing but the wide expanse of Lake Michigan on their right. The formidable waves of the lake crashed against the breakers and, unable to help herself, Cameron glanced over her shoulder at her favorite view of the city: the Hancock building and the other sky-scrapers rising majestically next to the lake along with the twinkling lights of the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier. Every bitterly cold February when she asked herself why she lived in Chicago, this view was the answer.

  She turned around and pulled closer to Jack as they raced along the drive past Lincoln Park Zoo and the harbor. The air was brisk, but she had her jacket and he blocked most of the wind. And as much as she hated to admit it, the ride was . . . exhilarating. Her adrenaline was flowing, and several minutes later when they slowed to exit off Lake Shore at Belmont Harbor, she flipped open the visor of the helmet.

  “Take the long way,” she said breathlessly in Jack’s ear.

  It was hard to tell over the motorcycle engine, but she was almost certain she heard him chuckle. When they slowed down, she relaxed and loosened her grip around his waist. Without thinking, her right hand just sort of happened to graze along his stomach, and she felt his abdominal muscles tighten in response, firm and hard as a rock.

  And that was pretty much the moment she started thinking about sex.

  In her defense, to start things out, he was the hottest man she’d ever laid eyes on—and now her hands, too—and it certainly didn’t help that she was straddling him between her legs. As they drove, nice and slow along the side streets, Cameron tried to pull her mind out of the gutter. But then they stopped at an intersection and she noticed how Jack’s hands worked the handlebar/clutch thingy as he revved the engine—almost like a caress—and she began imagining other things his hands could caress, strong hands that could lift her up, hold her down, flip her over, pin
her against a wall . . . and she realized then that her mind was already so far down in the gutter she’d need an extension ladder to get it out so she might as well just give in to the whole darn fantasy.

  They were just getting to the good part in her head—in her mind she had revised the scene from the other day when Jack and Wilkins came by to tell her about the surveillance, only this time it was only her and Jack (no clue how he actually got inside her house, useless details) and this time she had just stepped out of the shower (with perfect makeup and hair, of course) and he was waiting in her bedroom (an act that would be stalker-ish in real life but was necessary to advance the storyline) and he said some sly bit about was she going to be a cooperative witness and she said something equally sly back (she hadn’t come up with the exact line yet but at this point the dialogue became superfluous) and then she dropped her towel to the floor and walked over and without saying anything else they tumbled onto the bed and—

  Pulled in front of her house.

  The motorcycle came to a stop, and Cameron blinked as she came back to reality. She sat there, needing a moment to regroup, trying to focus on the fact that the man she was with was Jack Pallas, who had only meant trouble for her in their brief, but bad, history together.

  Noticing that she hadn’t moved, he turned around and flipped open the visor of her helmet.

  “You okay in there?”

  Cameron snapped out of it. “Sure—I’m fine.” She pulled off the helmet, handed it over to him, and even managed a nonchalant look. Or so she thought.

  Jack looked at her closely. “Are you blushing?”

  Cameron shrugged. “I don’t think so. Maybe there’s a little color on my cheeks from the wind.”

  “You were wearing a helmet.”

  Right.

  Time to go.

  She climbed off the bike as quickly as she could in her dress and heels. Jack had parked the motorcycle next to the curb, and the added inches made it easier for her to get down. With an efficient nod, she said her good-bye. “Thanks for the ride. Good night.” She turned and headed toward her front gate.

  “Hold on—I need to check out your house.”

  She stopped, having forgotten about that. “Well, let’s hurry up, then,” she said over her shoulder. She got to the gate and reached for the handle when his hand came down over hers.

  “Anxious to get rid of me, are you?” he asked.

  Cameron turned around. “Yes.”

  Jack paused, as if seeing something he hadn’t expected. He took a step toward her. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Uh-oh . . . trouble.

  She tried to play it off. “Like what?” She opened the gate and backed toward the front steps.

  Jack continued to advance on her. “Like that.”

  Cameron put her hand on the stone ledge and slowly climbed up the stairs. “You’re imagining things.”

  He shook his head slowly. “No.”

  “I must’ve gotten worked up from my first motorcycle ride,” she lied. And possibly from thinking about riding something else, too.

  Shameless.

  Jack clenched his jaw. “Christ, Cameron.” As he backed her toward the door, his expression was part angry, part . . . wow—something else entirely. “What the hell am I supposed to do when you look at me like that?”

  “Ignore it. Stay focused on the fact that you hate me.”

  “I’m trying. I’m really trying here.”

  He had her trapped against the door. Cameron wondered if he could hear the pounding of her heart, it was beating so fast.

  Jack put his hand on her hip. Such a simple touch, but Cameron’s breath caught nevertheless. With her back pressed against the door, the only movement of her body came from her chest, her breathing short and quick in anticipation.

  Jack’s gaze fell on her parted lips. He slid his other hand to her nape and tilted her head, pinning her with dark eyes so hot she felt the burn in her stomach.

  She knew she could push him away if she wanted to.

  She didn’t want to.

  His gaze softened. “Cameron,” he said huskily, and she felt as though she melted right there. Knowing what he was about to do, she closed her eyes and felt his lips brush lightly against hers right before he—

  Stopped.

  Blinking in confusion, Cameron watched as Jack pulled back.

  “We’ve got company,” he said in a thick voice.

  She looked over his shoulder and saw a familiar unmarked car parked on the street in front of her house. Phelps and Kamin.

  “When did they get here?” she asked.

  “Just now. I heard the car pull up.” Jack gestured to her door. “Do you have your keys?”

  She nodded, trying to clear her head. “In my purse.” She pulled the keys out and unlocked the door.

  Jack moved past her and stepped inside. “Stay in the doorway, where Kamin and Phelps can see you.” Then he went to search her house.

  Cameron stood there and waited, trying to process what had happened between her and Jack. Her mind was quickly coming to terms with the fact that she’d almost just made a very big mistake, although her body seemed not as willing to accept this as fact.

  Get a grip, she told herself as Jack came down the stairs from the second floor.

  “All clear,” he said as he approached.

  Cameron stepped out of the doorway, knowing that physical distance was her best defense against him right then.

  Jack noticed her quick retreat. “Don’t forget to lock the door behind me,” he said tersely.

  He walked out the door.

  JACK HURRIED DOWN the steps, trying to figure out when, exactly, he had become such an idiot.

  He’d almost kissed her. And if Phelps and Kamin hadn’t pulled up when they had, he would have.

  Clearly, a bad idea. On this, at least, they seemed to agree.

  He’d been momentarily caught off guard by that look she’d given him when she’d gotten off the bike—whatever the hell that had been—but now he was focused once again. She was his witness. More important, she was Cameron Lynde, and that meant hands off. The last time he’d gotten too close to her, he’d gotten burned. Big time. Not something he wanted to go through again.

  He liked being back in Chicago. Being a solitary person, he didn’t have a ton of friends, but his younger sister and two-year-old nephew lived close to the city. He planned to stay in Chicago for good this time, and that meant no screw ups, particularly in cases where Cameron was involved.

  Jack walked the perimeter of the house and confirmed that all the windows and doors were secure. When he finished, he closed the front gate and headed over to the unmarked car parked at the curb. He had no idea how much Kamin and Phelps had seen, but they weren’t smirking or gawking as he walked up, so he took that as a good sign.

  The window of the passenger side unrolled as he walked up. Jack knew he was in trouble as soon as he saw the older cop’s expression.

  Kamin grinned approvingly. “So that’s why you wanted to drive her home from the restaurant.”

  Phelps leaned across the seat. “Does this mean she’s not going to the wedding with Max-the-investment-banker?”

  So much for hoping they hadn’t seen anything.

  Twelve

  ON THE WEST side of the city, Grant put on his game face as he approached the bar with the red neon side that blinked “Club Rio.” He felt naked without his gun and shoulder harness, but only a man with a death wish would attempt to bring a piece into this kind of place.

  He opened the door and the loud rhythmic beat of salsa music spilled out. Almost immediately upon stepping inside, a bouncer dressed in black and wearing an ear wire frisked him. He asked the bouncer where he could find Mr. Black—that was all his contact had told him, to ask for a Mr. Black. The bouncer nodded in the direction of the few empty booths in the back of the club.

  Grant chose the booth in the corner and took a seat. It was doubtful that anyone would hear
him and “Mr. Black” over the music, but given the stakes and the purpose of his visit, he didn’t want to risk having any eaves-droppers. A waitress came for his order, and he asked for a whiskey neat. He didn’t plan to drink it, but appearance was everything in situations such as these and he didn’t want to look overly nervous or suspicious.

  After the waitress came back with his drink, he sat back in the booth and feigned interest in watching the dancers out on the floor in the center of the club. In the middle of the second song, a tall, thin man in his forties showed up at his table. He wore an open-neck white cotton shirt that hung loosely over dark jeans and had shortly cropped bleached-blond hair. His arms, exposed by his rolled-up sleeves, were covered with tattoos. Not exactly the image he’d had in mind.

  “Are you Mr. Black?” Grant asked.

  “Good guess,” the man said in a slightly raspy voice. He took a seat across the table. “I hear you’re looking for information about an FBI investigation, Mr. Lombard.”

  Grant decided against asking how he knew his name. “I heard that Roberto Martino might be able to assist me.”

  Mr. Black lit up a cigarette and exhaled smoke across the table. “Mr. Martino doesn’t assist people, Mr. Lombard. People assist him. Tell me something—does Senator Hodges know you’re here?”

  Grant also decided against asking how they knew who he worked for. “He doesn’t need to know. His chief of staff sent me,” he said, playing up the charade that he was there only on Driscoll’s orders. Not that anyone was likely to find out about this meeting. Club Rio was not a bar that told its secrets.

  “Why should I care about Senator Hodges’s chief of staff?” Mr. Black asked.

  “He has the ear of a very influential man. Having a connection to Senator Hodges could be useful to your boss one day.”

  Mr. Black considered this as he took another drag of his cigarette. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Perhaps you’d be more interested to learn that Senator Hodges and Mr. Martino share a common enemy.”

  “Martino has many enemies. You’ll have to be a lot more specific.”

  “Jack Pallas.”