Blue Smoke (21 page)

He was still debating the ethics of passing it off as his own when Reena knocked.

He had music on—some jazzy Norah Jones—and had taken a swipe at the dust. His intentions to do a more thorough sprucing job had been waylaid by his time at Mrs. M.'s. And his weakness for her cookies.

But the place looked good, he decided. And he had changed the sheets on his bed. In case.

When he opened the door and looked at her, he was really hoping they'd get to use the fresh sheets.

“Hello, neighbor.” He moved straight in—why waste time?—cupped his hands on her torso and caught her mouth with his.

She softened against him, just a little. Just a tantalizing bit. Then eased back. “Not bad as appetizers go. What's the main course?” She handed him a bottle cheerfully bagged in a silver sack. “And I hope it goes with Pinot Grigio.”

“We're still on for chicken, so this is great.” He took her hand to walk her back to the kitchen.

“Flowers.” She turned at the table to admire the Shasta daisies he'd stuck in a blue bottle. “And candles. Aren't you clever?”

“I have moments. It's my grandmother's stuff. I spent some time going through the boxes last night.”

She followed the direction of his gaze, studied the display cabinet. There were more old bottles, interesting shapes, and some dark blue dishes, some wineglasses with etched cups.

“That's nice. She'd like you putting her things out.”

“I never got much of that sort of thing on my own. Just more to pack up when you move.”

“Which you do, regularly.”

He opened the wine, got two of the etched glasses from the cabinet. “Can't turn a place if you're still living in it.”

“Don't you get attached?”

“A couple of times. But then I'd see this other place and think, Wow, think what we could do with that. Potential and profit versus comfort and familiarity.”

“You're a house slut.”

“I am.” Laughter warmed his eyes as he tapped his glass to hers. “Have a seat. I'll get things moving here.”

She slid onto a counter stool. “How about starting from scratch? Have you ever bought a lot and done the whole works?”

“Thought about it. Maybe one day. Dream house deal. But mostly I like seeing what there is, how to make it better or bring it back from the dead.”

When he checked something in the oven, she caught the scent of rosemary. And made a note to pick him up a couple of pots of herbs for his windowsill—if things progressed.

“You said you could do anything with my house I wanted. Was that lust talking, or is that straight scoop?”

“Lust is a factor, but within reason, sure. You can have pretty much what you want.” He dribbled oil in a sauté pan.

“Can I have a fireplace in my bedroom?”

“Wood-burning?”

“Not necessarily. Gas or electric would do. Probably better, actually. I don't think I want to haul wood up the stairs.”

“We could do that.”

“Really? I always wanted that—like in the movies. A fireplace in the bedroom. One in the library. And what I'd really like is to turn the bedroom into more of a master suite. Incorporating the bath, maybe enlarging it some. And I want a skylight over the tub.”

He glanced back again, considered her. “You want a skylight over the tub.”

“I think that falls into the within-reason category. Of course, all this has to be done in small stages. I've got a budget.”

He added minced garlic to the oil. “I'll take a look, play with some designs, work you up a bid. How's that?”

She smiled, resting her elbow on the table, sipping wine. “Handy. You may turn out to be too good to be true.”

“That's what I thought about you.”

“I don't know what I want, Bo. For this, for myself. Hell, I don't know what I want tomorrow, much less a year from tomorrow.”

“Me, either.”

“I think you do, or you have a rough design. I think when you do what you do, when you build and project, you're able to visualize next year.”

“I know I want you tonight. I know I've wanted you—or the image of you—for a long time. But I don't know what we'll do with, or about, each other tomorrow. Or next year.”

He slid chicken into the pan, turned. “I think there's a reason you moved in next door. I think there's a reason I saw you all those years ago, but didn't meet you until now. I don't think I was ready for you until now.”

He watched her, sitting at his counter with her she-lion eyes, running
her finger along the etched cup of his grandmother's glass. “Maybe that means things are falling into place. Or it means something else. I don't have to know right this minute.”

“You talked about potential, when you look at a new place and it pulls at you. You have the potential to make me fall in love with you. That scares me.”

He felt something rush into his heart, burn there. “Because you think I'll hurt you?”

“Maybe. Or I'll hurt you. Or it'll just turn out to be some big, complicated mess.”

“Or it could be something special.”

She shook her head. “When I look at relationships—my relationships—the glass is half empty. And what's left in it may or may not be potable.”

He picked up the wine, filled her glass to the rim. “You just haven't had the right guy doing the pouring.”

“Maybe not.” She glanced toward the stove. “Don't burn the chicken.”

H
e didn't, and she had to admit she was impressed that he managed to get a full meal on the table without incident. She nursed the second glass of wine, and sampled the chicken.

“All right,” she said, “this is good. This is really good. That's a serious compliment coming from someone who grew up in an atmosphere where food isn't just sustenance, isn't even merely art, but a way of life.”

“The rosemary chicken gets them every time.”

She laughed, continued to eat. “Tell me about your first love.”

“That would be you. Okay,” he added when she narrowed her eyes at him. “Tina Woolrich. Eighth grade. She had big blue eyes and little apple breasts—which she generously let me touch one sweet summer afternoon in a darkened movie theater. How about you?”

“Michael Grimaldi. I was fourteen, and desperately in love with Michael Grimaldi, who was stuck on my sister Bella. I imagined that the scales would fall from his eyes and he would understand it was me who was his destiny. But that love went unrequited.”

“Foolish Michael.”

“Okay. Who broke your heart the first time?”

“Back to you again. Otherwise . . . nobody.”

“Me, either. I don't know if that makes us lucky or sad. Bella now, she thrived on getting her heart broken, and breaking hearts. With Fran, I remember her crying in her room because some jerk had asked another girl to the prom. Me, I never cared enough. So I guess that is sad.”

“Ever get close to the M word?”

“Marriage.” Something flickered in her eyes. “Depends on your point of view. I'll tell you about it sometime. I talked with Mandy today.”

And with that, he assumed, the talk of relationships past was closed. “Yeah?”

“She called to apologize—again—and I asked if she'd meet me. Every now and again I pull Josh's file out of the closet. I wanted to talk to her about it. Nothing new, of course. But meeting her here struck me as one of those cosmic signs, so I wanted to follow through. In any case, I liked her. Buckets of energy, which may come from the fact that she drank a gallon of coffee in a twenty-minute period.”

“Lives on it,” Bo agreed. “She's never understood how I live without it.”

“You don't drink coffee?”

“Never got the taste for it.”

“Me, either. Strange.”

“Just another check on the you're-meant-for-me balance sheet. Want more chicken?”

“No, but thanks. Bowen?”

“Catarina.”

She laughed a little, took another sip of wine. “Did you sleep with Mandy when she was married?”

“No.”

“Okay. That's just one of my lines. I don't have many, but that's one of them. I'll do the dishes,” she said as she rose.

“We'll just pile them up for later,” he began, then, catching her expression, sighed. “You're one of those. Okay, we'll do the dishes. Want dessert first?”

“I haven't decided if I'm sleeping with you yet.”

“Ha ha. There goes my heart. I meant the sort you put on a plate and eat. We've got pie.”

She set her plate on the counter, turned. “What kind?”

He opened the refrigerator, took out the dish.

“That's lemon meringue.” She stepped closer, gave him a serious look. “That's not from the bakery either.”

“Nope.”

“You baked a pie?”

He tried an innocent, slightly insulted look. “Why is that so surprising?”

She leaned back on the counter, studied him. “If you can name five ingredients in that dish—other than lemon—I'll sleep with you right now.”

“Flour, sugar . . . oh hell. Busted. Client baked it.”

“She pays you in pie?”

“It's my bonus. I also have a bag of chocolate chip cookies, but I'm not sharing them unless you sleep with me. We can have them for breakfast.”

“You can do time for attempting to bribe a police officer.”

“What, you're wired?”

She laughed. And she thought, The hell with the dishes. She leaned her elbows back on the counter, tipped up her chin. “Why don't you put that pie down, Goodnight, and come over here and find out.”

He moved, his eyes on hers. There was a challenge in hers and a sparkle of sexy amusement. He was already hard when he fit his body to hers. What man wouldn't be?

She kept her arms stretched out, her hands on the counter even as he took her mouth, even as he took in her quick gasp.

“You carrying your gun?” he asked with his mouth on hers.

She stiffened just a little. “In my purse. Why?”

“Because if somebody comes to the door this time, we're going to use it.”

She had an instant to relax again, an instant to laugh, then he swept her into his arms. “And we're doing the dishes later.”

“Ummm. Forceful.”

“You ain't seen nothing yet.” But his knees went weak when she clamped her teeth on his neck. Focus, he ordered himself as he carried her out of the room. Don't blow it. “And we're not doing this on the kitchen floor. Not that I'm opposed to it.” He turned his head so he could see her face again. “Just not this time.”

She touched his hair, and her smile went soft. “Not this time. You planning on carrying me all the way upstairs?”

“Tonight, Scarlett, you won't think of Ashley.”

As he climbed, she wrapped her arms around his neck and covered his face with kisses.

He'd forgotten to leave a light on—so much for preplanning—but he knew the way. And there was just enough twilight left to guide him.

Her arms stayed around his neck as he lowered her to the bed, bringing him with her, keeping their mouths fused. And the thump of his heart was a jungle drum in his ear.

“Wait. It's too dark.” Still he tasted her throat, the tender spot under her jaw. His hands burned to cover flesh. “I want to see you. Need to see you.”

He peeled away, fumbled in the nightstand drawer for a book of matches to light the candle he'd bought with her in mind.

When he turned back, she was braced on her elbows, her hair a wild halo of melted amber. “You're a romantic.”

“With you.”

The halo shimmered as she cocked her head. “Generally, I distrust men who say just the right thing at just the right time. But I have to say, it's working for you. Think you can remember your place?”

He lowered to her, felt her sigh. “Yeah, that's it.”

The fantasy of her had been with him all of his adult life. In fantasy she could be—had been—whatever he wanted. But the reality of her was more. Skin and lips, scents and sounds. All washed over him in a hot flood that was need and pleasure and bedazzlement.

It wasn't a dream that moved under him, that met his mouth with eager heat. And the woman she was rose out of that dream to surround him.

He spiked her pulse, had it hammering, had her mind blurring with movement and textures. The scrape of teeth, the glide of tongue, the mix of breath and sighs. His mouth was like a fever, yet somehow patient. As if he was content to let them both burn through kisses alone.

Then, when she thought she could bear it no longer, when her body arched up to him to offer more, he used his hands.

Hard, strong hands, brushing, tantalizing, then clamping, possessing. Breasts, thighs, hips, with the heat still rising so she wondered her skin didn't catch flame.

He pulled her shirt over her head, and then it was his mouth on her, feasting on the rise of her breasts over cups of lace, sliding his tongue under thin fabric to sample, to tease.

On a gasp she rolled over him to tug at his shirt, to fight with buttons. She flung back her hair, straddled him as she parted the shirt, ran her hands up his chest.

“You're built, Goodnight.” Her breathing was already thick, already unsteady. “Seriously built. Got yourself a few scars.” She trailed her fingers over one that skated along his rib cage, felt him quiver. Then she lowered her head to skim lips, teeth, tongue over flesh.

He pushed up, shifting her so her legs hooked around his waist. The hands that ran up her back were rough with calluses, and more exciting for it. With one flick of his fingers, he unhooked her bra. She bowed back and moaned when he closed his mouth over her.

He could feel her heart beat under his lips, all but taste it. Her long body was so smooth, so agile. Narrow torso and hips, miles of leg. He wanted to spend hours exploring her—days, possibly years. But tonight, all those years of longing pressed at him to take, just take.

He pushed her back, dragged her pants down, followed them with his hands and mouth. Her body undulated, and when he once more feasted on flesh and lace, it bucked.

Her hands clamped his head, pressing him against her when she came, when she cried out and shuddered. His blood pounded in response as he stripped away the lace and drove her over again.

And she was dragging him up, her words incomprehensible now as they rolled over the bed. Her hands were quick as well, stripping him bare. Body and soul. Her mouth was hot and hungry, her body vibrating.

She stayed clamped around him when he tore open a condom, then pushed him next to madness when she took it from him to do the honors herself.

Once again she straddled him. He stared up at her. Her skin, her hair, her eyes, were all burnished gold in the candlelight.

She took him into the wet wonder of her.

Once again her body bowed back as she absorbed the quakes of pleasure. Shimmering through her, silken heat, velvet aches. She rode, taking him deeper, glorying in the desperate grip of his hands on her hips.

Flash point, she thought dimly when the orgasm ignited inside her. And her body swayed down to his.

Her head was still spinning, barely registered shock when he rolled, pinning her under him. He was deep in her, hard and deep. She heard his labored breath mix with her own.

She reached up, braced her hands on his shoulders. His eyes were so green now, she realized, like crystal, with all those mists burned out by passion.

He plunged into her, stealing even her gasp. Plunged, so that her fingers dug into his shoulders and her stunned system jolted with shock.

She thought she might have screamed. She heard some helpless sound as her blood rushed through her like a storm. Her body gathered for more, took more even when the pleasure became unspeakable.

She felt the muscles she gripped harden like iron, knew even as she imploded he was with her.

And as her hands slid limply off his shoulders, she thought, dazed, Flashover.

S
he was sprawled like the dead under him. Like someone killed in battle, she imagined. Sweaty and battered. Since he hadn't moved in the last several minutes, she decided it had been a war that had ended in a tie.

“Is that the phone?” she mumbled.

He stayed as he was, flat out on top of her, his face buried in the mass of her hair. “No. What?”

“Wait.” She took slow breaths, concentrated. “God, it's my ears. My ears are ringing. Wow.”

“I'm going to stop crushing you as soon as I regain the use of my limbs.”

“No rush. You know, you were right. We weren't ready for this thirteen years ago. We'd have killed each other.”

“I'm not sure we didn't. That's okay. They can bury us just like this.”

“If we're dead, we can't make love again.”

“Sure, we can. If heaven doesn't have lots of good sex, what's the point?”

Had she ever known a man who made her laugh so easily? she wondered. “I think saying something like that could send you to hell.”

“If God didn't invent sex, who did?” He managed to brace himself on his elbows to look down at her. “And that was one hell of a religious experience.”

“I did hear singing, but I'm not sure it was angels.”

“That was me.” He lowered his head, kissed her softly.

T
hey ate pie in bed, and made love again with the tang of lemon on their tongues and crumbs on the sheets.

She gave him a slow, lingering kiss before rolling out of bed to find her clothes.

“You're going?”

“It's nearly two in the morning. We both work for a living.”

“You could stay, sleep here. It's not like you have that far to go. And remember, I have cookies for breakfast.”

“Tempting.” She pulled on her pants, shirt, stuffed her underwear in her pockets. She was gloriously tired, the sort of tired, she thought, that only came after good, healthy sex. “But just how much sleep do you figure we'll manage? We're too hot for each other.”

“I couldn't possibly go another round,” he claimed. “I'm tapped.”

She angled her head, studying his face in the candlelight. “Liar.”

He grinned. “Prove it.”

She laughed, shook her head. “Thanks for dinner, dessert, and all the rest.”

“My pleasure. Lots of my pleasure. How about tomorrow night?”

“How about it? You don't have to get up,” she began when he tossed his legs over the bed and reached for his pants. “I know my way.”

“I'll walk you over. How about dinner tomorrow? My place, your place, anyplace.”

“Actually, I might have a line on a couple of tickets to the O's game tomorrow. Behind the dugout at third. If they come through, are you interested?”

“Is rain wet? You like baseball?” He pointed at her as he spoke.

“No.” She raked her hair more or less into place with her fingers. “I
love
baseball.”

“Seriously. Who won the series in . . . 2002?”

She pursed her lips a moment. “It was California's year. Angels over the Giants in the full seven. Lackey got the win.”

“Oh my God.” Goggling at her, he thumped a fist on his heart. “You
are
Dream Girl. Marry me, bear my children. But let's wait until after the game tomorrow.”

“That'll give me time to buy a white dress. I'll let you know if the tickets come through.”

“If they don't, I'll start working on some for the next home game.” He took her hand as they walked downstairs.

She picked up her purse. “You don't have to walk me next door, Bo.”

“Sure I do. There might be muggers. Or aliens. You just never know.”

He grabbed his keys, stuffed them in his pocket as he headed out the door with her.

“See, romantic. And old-fashioned.”

“Yet manly, and with panther-like reflexes.”

“Which will come in handy with the aliens.”

They walked down his steps, then up hers. Where she let him kiss her limp.

“Go home,” she murmured.

“Maybe you should walk me back. You're the cop.”

“Home.” She gave him a little nudge, then unlocked her door. “Good night, Goodnight,” she said, and shut the door.

Watching her. Know how to wait, know how to plan. Never thought it would take so long, but hey, shit happens. Besides, the waiting makes it bigger. Slut's banging the guy next door now. Convenient.

Could kill him now. Go up, knock on the door. He's going to open it. He's going to think it's the whore. Slide a knife right into his guts. Surprise!

Better to wait. Wait and watch. Do him later.

While the city burns.

Light's on. Bedroom light. Her bedroom. Bet she's naked. Touching herself, where she let him touch her. Whore-bitch.

Have some of that, oh yeah, a good piece of that before you light her up.

Window goes dark. In bed now.

Let her fall asleep. More fun if she's asleep. Take your time, got nothing but.

Have a cigarette. Relax.

Take out the phone. Got a good picture of her in your head. Naked, in bed.

Wake up, bitch.

The phone rang, shooting her out of sleep. She glanced at the clock first, noted she'd barely been down ten minutes. The Caller ID display made her frown. Local number, unfamiliar.

“Hello?”

“It's almost time for the surprise.”

“Oh, for God's sake.”

“Hot and bright. You'll know it's for you. Are you naked, Catarina? Are you wet?”

When he said her name, a fist hit her heart. “Who—”

She cursed when the phone clicked in her ear. Once again, she wrote down the number, the time.

First thing in the morning, she thought grimly, somebody else was getting a goddamn wake-up call.

She got out of bed, got her weapon. Checked her load. Taking it with her, she checked her doors, her windows. Then stretched out on the couch in the living room, the gun on the table beside her, and tried to get some sleep.

B
oth cell phones.” With O'Donnell beside her, Reena reported the calls to her captain. “Each is registered to a different party, but they're both Baltimore city numbers.”

“He called you by name.”

“The second call, yeah.”

“You didn't recognize the voice?”

“No, sir. He may be disguising it. He's keeping it soft, a little hoarse. But it didn't ring any bells. The first time I figured it was just some jerk spinning the dial, getting off. But this was personal.”

“Go check it out.”

“Feel stupid, dragging you along,” Reena said to her partner when they walked to the car. “I could handle something like this on personal.”

“Guy makes threatening calls—”

“He didn't threaten me.”

“Underlying,” O'Donnell said, and pouted a little when Reena got to the driver's side before he did. “Threat's implied, and he makes it to a cop—uses the cop's name. It's official business.”

“Lots of people know my name. And it looks like one of them's a crank-calling pervert.” She backed out of the parking spot. “Closest is number two's work address. Phone's registered in the name of Abigail Parsons.”

Abigail Parsons taught fifth grade. She was a generously sized woman of sixty who wore sturdy shoes and a bright blue dress.

In Reena's judgment she looked a little thrilled to have been called out of class by the police.