An Eye for Danger (24 page)

"Neither were you, as I recall. Don't be a hypocrite."

Sam clawed the back of his neck, chewed the inside of his mouth. "Fine, you're right. You got a bum deal with me, but you stood by me anyway. You didn't have to trust me then, and you don't have to trust me now." He slid off the table and crouched next to me. "But I'm begging you, if you won't do this my way, promise me you won't see him again."

I scoffed. "So that's why you came back."

"Hey, call me protective."

"Protective is when you want to keep me safe, Sam. Possessive is when you want to keep me for yourself."

"Call it whatever you want. But I don't want you alone with Stone." When I wouldn't respond, Sam lifted my chin toward him. "Promise me."

He stared at my mouth as my breaths pounded out of me. Light caught in the gold specks of his eyes, while I sank deeper into his dark, widening pupils.

"Promise me, Jules." Damn, the man could whisper my name across a room and I'd still shiver.

First he met my gaze, securing permission. Then he leaned forward and met my mouth, securing the promise. With his hand at the back of my neck, he kissed with a mix of curiosity—like he'd never tasted a woman before, never tasted me before—and possessiveness, which I no longer seemed to be rebuking, as his massaging lips broke down whatever remained of my resistance. Hell, those lips could open their own spa.

He'd no idea what his kiss could do to me, what
he
could do to me. Then again, I'd felt myself blush crown to chest.

I opened my mouth, inviting his tongue to venture deeper, and in tasting him a fever took hold. My toes clawed the floor as he tilted his head to one side, then to the next, tightening his grip so his fingers imprinted into my skin. My scalp crawled, and my shoulders wanted to edge out of the robe.

My lips had numbed to his beard stubble by the time he took my face in his hands, peeled his lips away and stopped us cold. His body held tight, and I waited for his next move.

Through his panting he swallowed forcibly, and then he released me and eased back on his heels, still kneeling next to my chair. He slid onto the banquette, shaking off the intensity that stunned us both, and glanced my way, his cheeks arcing with those crazy half-moons.

"Your lips turn red when I kiss you. God, I love that." Grinning at full throttle, he reached for the phone. "Won't be needing this anymore."

Smug, manipulative SOB… Thinks I'll collapse to his will over one kiss.

My hand landed on the phone first. "No, let's do this your way." I'd give him exactly what he
thought
he wanted. Dialing the number from memory, I smiled. "Besides, Stone's been expecting this call."

Clank
. Sam's arm hit his empty plate. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means be careful what you wish for, tough guy."

***

Before vacating my apartment, Sam unwrapped a slinky blue dress from a drycleaner bag, handed me a pink "burner" cell phone, which I assumed meant it couldn't be traced, and listed simple instructions: look great, be relaxed. We agreed on dinner but no movie, an entrée but no dessert. Definitely no dessert, said Sam, and no alcohol, he insisted. Then he'd received a call and fled without a goodbye. Or a kiss.

The minute he'd left a chill descended on the room. I drew both curtains, and still the space felt dark. I'd forgotten Sam's departures always felt like falling off a cliff. My date with Stone, and all the distractions that held, could not come soon enough.

By 7:40 p.m., I sat at my neighborhood Italian haunt, Voce Bistro, wearing my blue trench over dressy jeans and a pink cashmere sweater, my hair curled at my shoulders and my hands clasped in my lap. This was my date, not Sam's, so I played the game my way.

Voce's cramped but quaint interior included exposed brick walls, wood beam ceilings, and a plate glass window that fogged up from boiling pasta. A place where locals practically sat on each other's laps to get inside sooner, the waiters remembered your name, and the chef came to your table and listed the specials himself.

My trench pocket shuddered as the phone rang. Other diners stared as I tucked the coat behind me to muffle the ringing, which I didn't know how to turn off. After several seconds, the call must have rolled to a voicemail that I couldn't access for a phone that probably belonged to a girlfriend of Sam's I didn't want to know about.

"Comfy?" Sam's voice at my shoulder told me he was near enough to smack.

Sitting up straighter, I mumbled into my napkin. "He'll be here any minute."

"I thought you said eight."Sam bent near my chair to tie his shoe. He'd combed back his brown hair, taming the short waves, but still wore the same utilitarian sweatshirt and jeans.

"Yes, and he's always early."

"Always? Exactly how many times have you met with him? Strike that. Answer your phone next time."

Something brushed my hair, sending a shudder up my neck. I turned and Sam was gone.

Minutes later, Stone squeezed past the line at the door, giving me a quick wave. A tan leather car coat draped from his square shoulders, while a crisp linen shirt opened at the top to reveal the scalloping of his collar bones and the hint of chest muscles. Even his tan dress shoes were polished to a high sheen, the laces tight and centered. Here was a man who paid attention to details. And made them count.

I shifted my chair back as he approached.

"Don't stand on my account. Please." He slipped out of his coat, drawing the attention of female patrons. Even a waitress paused to watch. Shell buttons and fine gold threads woven into his long-sleeved shirt sparkled under the romantic lighting. He looked better than nice, and he smelled citrusy clean, a scent that drove my memory to vendor stalls in Morocco lined with preserved lemons.

He tugged his shirtfront when he noticed my focus. "Sister got it for me. I told her Tommy Bahama is too good for a cop."

"Not at all. Looks perfect on you." I bit my lip, counting how many years had passed since I'd complimented a man let alone been with one sexually, not counting the make-out sessions with Sam. I crossed my legs at the thought. "Not very fancy here, but I prefer mom-and-pop places for authentic food. And they still serve wine by the glass."

"I'm not a complicated man, Julie. Simple works for me." He entrenched himself in the menu. "Let me know what's good. On your territory, I'll defer to your judgment."

"The salads are delicious, if you like chunky vegetables." I pointed to selections on his menu. "The fish is unpredictable, but the braised lamb shank with couscous is worth writing home about."

He leaned onto his elbows, brushing against my arm. "I'm a pasta man, myself. That's one dish that always tastes like Mama made it."

"Then you're in luck. The house-made raviolis are amazing, and you get your choice of sauce: Alfredo, marinara, Bolognese, clam. Wait, I thought McCarthy was Anglo-Irish."

"Mom's family is Sicilian." He settled against the back of his chair. "You sound like one of those foodies who sample every new restaurant."

"Not exactly. I went to culinary school but gave up any dream of being a chef."

"Was that before or after the accident?" He closed his eyes when my smile dropped. "Excuse me, occupational hazard. Please ignore that man with the badge. He's leaving now."

I spread my napkin on my lap. "I'm not offended. And the answer is "before." The long hours weren't any more conducive to a relationship than working for magazines."

A white-haired, bow-tie-wearing waiter arrived and swept a basket of bread onto our table. He added a shallow dish of olive oil into which he drizzled balsamic vinegar till it pooled in the middle like an eyeball. I shook my head, dismissing memories of Sam's bruised chest. The waiter paused, noting my behavior.

"Looks delicious," I said, but he marched off sucking in his cheeks.

Stone surveyed the guests, probably memorizing every person's M.O. He was the best-looking guy in this couple's joint, where lovers young and old were lured by candlelight, white tablecloths, antique wood tables, and the general waft of Italian countryside that made locals feel like they were stepping outside polished New York.

The romantic setting also made my date look believable, not that I knew what a normal date looked like. In Afghanistan, my first date with the major included sitting under a hot lamp, balancing a metal tin of rations on my knees, and swatting away biting flies.

"I was trying to guess your age," I said, tearing a slice of bread. "Sorry, I have a knack for sounding rude. Journalistic hazard."

"Not at all. How old do I look?" He turned his face side to side.

"Young enough to crane your neck like that. Old enough to know better than to ring up the chiropractor bill." I appreciated his laughing with me, not at me. "You needn't ask me the same question. You have my data sheet."

"Now there you're wrong. Tonight, I don't know you, and you don't know me. That will make for more interesting conversation." Stone dipped his bread in olive oil and glanced at my buzzing coat. "You should probably answer that."

"Just my boss pestering me. New phone, so I don't know how to turn off the ringer yet."

"I can show you." He reached for my coat, annoyed at the attention we were drawing.

I set my hand atop his. "Or we could ignore it. No work tonight, like you said."

Besides, I wasn't sure what name would display on the phone's screen. Or what Sam would say if Stone answered.

The ringing ceased, though Stone still occupied my hand. "You probably can't wait to get away from here. I assume you travel a lot, considering the national scope of your photos."

"I travel more than I like. Let's leave it at that."

I grew tense even thinking about my long plane ride to Idaho, a second nervous flight home, and the taxi ride to an empty apartment. Empty and cold. Why had Sam kissed me so reverently, then left so abruptly, I wondered, as I lingered my bread in the olive oil mixture.

That's when I decided to break the rule to stay sober and signaled the waiter with my wine glass.

"You've had a long career for someone your age."

"Started in journalism when I was fourteen. A junior trade program at the local paper.  The editor found my photos in a contest and invited me to apply. Said I had an uncanny eye for people. So I got a leg up early. Twenty years, you see a lot of changes in this industry and a few too many editors come and go. But the camera is always there, waiting for your next adventure."

"Not often I hear someone sound romantic about their job. I'm usually on the other side of the conversation, when jobs have gone wrong and employees have gone postal."

Our dinners arrived: the lamb shank in a burgundy sauce for me, fettuccine Alfredo for Stone. He grew enthusiastic after his first bite and fed me a forkful. Not too heavy a cream sauce with a hint of nutmeg and lemon. Delicious. I felt proud for recommending the dish, and Stone gave accolades by humming with every bite. When I offered him a cut of my lamb, he made a show of holding my hand to keep the fork from moving and took his time withdrawing his lips from the bite.

Over dinner we talked of sports, at least what I knew of college football, his desire to follow in his father's footsteps as a cop, and why I still loved photography over any other career I'd tried.

"The lens is like seeing through a magical eye," I explained. "I feel blind without it."

His whole body nodded in appreciation as he wiped his mouth. "I hear you there. I've seen how the badge gives detectives that perception, like they can automatically understand suspects better, manipulate them easier. Then they take the badge off and go home to their spouses and haven't a clue how to engage. Pretty high divorce rate. Does that count as blind?"

"Their spouses probably think so."

He noticed me eyeing his left hand, and I cringed for being so obvious. "No ring, no tan line, no wife. Like I said, Julie, I'm not complicated. And I'm forty-one. Old enough to know a man needs manipulating once in a while, if he knows what's good for him."

"My dog manipulates me. He's shameless that way, but he keeps me on my toes, which is definitely good for me."

I could feel actual smile lines around my eyes. The real me was having fun on a real date with a real gentleman, who knew to keep his mouth closed when he chewed.

"That reminds me. I brought something for you." Stone scooted back his chair. "Be right back."

I tensed, remembering his last two offerings: the article about Luke's death and a warrant.

As soon as Stone stepped out the door, my phone rang and I dared to check the screen. Caller ID read "Wainwright." I craned my neck to look out the window. "He's coming back, Sam."

"Were you laughing with him? Never mind. Make it look real. Ten more minutes, then cut him off and go to the bathroom. No questions. Just trust me."

I dropped the phone into my pocket as Stone waltzed through the door, a bouquet of red roses in his hand, chivalry rearing its ugly head again and making me suspect his expectations. As he handed them to me, I saw they weren't flowers but dog treats wrapped in red tissue on sticks.

"My sister said a guy can't go wrong with these."

"Not sure Max deserves these after messing up your crime scene." At first, I hesitated to read the card with a room full of lovers staring at us, not to mention Sam watching. But Stone urged me on.

From one dog lover to another. Thanks for helping me put a smile on their faces. Stone.

"Happy to help," I said, my face burning.

"He seems pretty smart, finding his way home after you'd been gone so long."

"He got home before I did." I hadn't missed Stone's testing my facts. "Probably suckered the neighbor with those sweet eyes to get inside the building, which wouldn't be the first time. He's quite the little con artist." But I wasn't talking about my dog.

"Be grateful. Loyalty is rare." Stone caught my hand. "Especially in my business."

"Speaking of business…" Sipping my wine, I gathered courage. "I was wondering if you had more information about my accident."