Like No One Else (17 page)

Tommie couldn't help laughing. The same thought had occurred to her the very first time she'd met Vonda Jeffers, a greedy, manipulative woman who could drain the life out of anyone faster than a vampire. “Poor Zhany. Come on, let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

“I don't want any coffee,” he groused. “I just said that to get rid of her.”

Tommie grinned. “Then let's just go for a walk,” she suggested, tucking her arm through his and steering him down the tiled corridor bustling with hospital staff and visitors bearing flowers and get-well balloons.

When Zhane's temper had cooled, he said, “I'm sorry I had to skip out on you this morning.”

Tommie waved off the apology. “Don't be ridiculous. You had a family emergency.”

“Too bad Richard wasn't so understanding,” Zhane said sourly. “When I called to tell him I'd have to miss rehearsal tonight, he didn't sound too pleased. He made a point of reminding me that we have a performance on Friday—as if I needed a reminder—then he got off the phone without so much as a word about my nephew. No expression of sympathy or support. No offer to say a prayer or light a candle. Nothing.”

Tommie scowled. “Asshole. And to think I was starting to feel guilty for disliking him so much.”

“You were?” Zhane sounded surprised.

“Well, he took time out of his busy schedule to attend my lecture. He didn't have to do that. And he brought me a beautiful bouquet. After I got home and put the flowers in a vase, I thought to myself, maybe he's not so bad after all.” Tommie frowned. “So much for that.”

“He's
not
that bad,” Zhane countered. “I mean, yeah, he could have shown a little more compassion when I told him about Kadeem, but I know he has a lot on his mind. The company is very important to him, and he's got a lot riding on his shoulders as our new artistic director.”

“Stop making excuses for him,” Tommie chided.

Zhane chuckled. “I'm not making excuses. You're just hard on Richard because you don't like him. But I know who you
do
like,” he said, sending her a look filled with sly insinuation.

Tommie averted her gaze. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Zhane laughed. “Nice try, sugarplum, but I was there, and I saw the way you were with that hot-tamale detective. I don't think I've ever seen you blush as many times as you did yesterday morning. Look, you're even doing it now!”

“I am
not
blushing,” Tommie grumbled. “Black women don't blush.”

“
You
sure as hell are.” Zhane grinned knowingly. “I don't blame you one bit, honey. Paulo Sanchez is too damned fine for his own good. If I thought there was the slightest chance in hell of drafting him to play for my team, I'd try to steal him from you.”

Tommie snorted. “He'd have to belong to me in order to be stolen from me. And he doesn't.”

“Doesn't what?”

“Belong to me.”

“That can change.”

“Who says I want it to?”

Zhane laughed. “Who're you trying to fool, sugarplum? You and I both know you want that man. I wasn't going to mention this, but when Daniela and I were standing in line yesterday, we glanced over and saw you and Paulo gazing into each other's eyes while your hand rested almost lovingly on his cheek. It was as if you'd both forgotten where you were, like you were the only two people in that restaurant. It was obvious to me and Daniela—and anyone else watching—that you and Paulo were totally into each other.”

Tommie swallowed, feeling transparent and hating it. “Fine. So we're attracted to each other. That doesn't mean anything.”

Zhane arched a dubious brow. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes.” She heaved an impatient sigh. “Look, Zhany, I know you enjoy playing matchmaker, but don't waste your time on me and Paulo. We're completely wrong for each other.”

“How do you know that?”

Tommie scowled. “For starters, he's a total man-whore. He uses and discards women like it's nothing more than a game to him,” she said bitterly, resentment stirring within her when she remembered the way Paulo had ruthlessly played her last night, kissing and caressing her, teasing and tormenting her until she'd been on fire for him, ready to do whatever he asked of her. She'd come to her senses just in the nick of time, but the damage had already been done, her humiliation complete.

Zhane drawled humorously, “Sounds like what he needs is the right woman to come along and teach him a lesson.”

Tommie stopped midstride, staring at her friend.

And just like that, she knew how she would get her revenge against Paulo.

It was after nine o'clock by the time Paulo decided to call it quits for the day and shut off his computer. As he exited out of the crime-scene files he'd spent the better part of the afternoon reviewing, he knew the gruesome images would remain seared into his brain long after the computer screen had gone black.

On the drive home he ran through a mental checklist of the day's developments. Kathleen Phillips's revelation about an affair between Maribel Cruz and Ted Colston had placed the attorney squarely at the top of the suspect list, which, unfortunately for him, included no other names at the moment. Colston had motive for murdering his secretary. Not only were they sleeping together; he'd gotten her pregnant. Maribel could have made real trouble for him if she'd ever decided to tell his wife or employer about the affair. Maybe she'd even threatened to do so, provoking Colston into killing her.

After leaving Kathleen Phillips's apartment, Paulo had driven straight to the law firm to confront Colston. But when he arrived, he was told that the attorney was out of the office for the rest of the day, supposedly tending to an urgent matter involving one of his clients in Austin. Incensed, Paulo had instructed the nervous secretary, a temp, to notify her boss that if he left town again without clearing it with Paulo first, there would be hell to pay.

On his way to the elevators he'd run into Daniela, who had just emerged from a meeting in the conference room. She'd grabbed his hand and dragged him into her office, closing the door behind them.

“I know you're not at liberty to discuss the case, so I won't even bother asking you for an update,” she said without preamble.

“Thanks,” Paulo muttered, still simmering with frustration over Colston's disappearing act.

“Anyway, that's not the reason I pulled you in here.” Daniela rested a shapely hip against her large mahogany desk and crossed her arms over the front of her pale silk blouse. “You've been avoiding me.”

“No, I haven't.”

“Yes, you have. Ever since we left the Breakfast Klub yesterday morning, you haven't returned any of my phone calls. And I think I know why.” Her hazel eyes twinkled with mischief. “You don't want me to ask you about Tommie Purnell.”

Paulo didn't bother denying it. His cousin knew him too well.

“My God, Paulo, she's fucking gorgeous!”

Amused, he shook his head at her. “Anyone ever tell you that you curse like a sailor?”

Daniela grinned. “Who do you think I learned it from? Anyway, don't try to change the subject. Why didn't you ever tell me about Tommie?”

“There's nothing to tell.”

“Like hell. There were enough fireworks between you and that woman to burn down the restaurant! And sitting across the table from you two was like being in the path of a wildfire. Every time your shoulders brushed, or your eyes met, or you reached for the saltshaker at the same time, I thought I'd have to hose you both down.” Daniela chuckled, shaking her head in amazement. “No wonder you've been having dreams about her.”

Paulo scowled. “It wasn't that kind of dream.”

“Whatever you say.” She grinned impishly. “I told Mom about her.”

Paulo groaned. “Damn it, Daniela—”

“She wants to meet her.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's not like that.”

“I beg to differ. I think it's very much
like that
. Mom wants you to invite her over to the house for Sunday dinner.”

“Hell, no.”

Daniela laughed. “Come on, Paulo. I like Tommie. Oh, she came off a little cool at first, but the more I talked to her over breakfast, the more I warmed up to her. She's really smart and tough, the kind of chick you don't mess with if you know what's good for you. And you might think, based on the way she looks, that she'd be full of herself, but she's surprisingly down-to-earth. I could see the two of us becoming good friends if you and she—”

“We're not,” Paulo interrupted flatly.

Lips pursed, Daniela gave him a long, measured look. “Sooner or later,” she said quietly, “you're going to have to stop punishing yourself for what happened between you and Jaci.”

Paulo's jaw tightened. Without another word he turned and stalked out of the office. Daniela knew better than to go after him.

Work had dominated his thoughts over the next several hours, keeping him too busy to dwell on the unnerving conversation with Daniela. But as he drove home that night, his police band radio crackling softly in the background, his thoughts strayed once again to his cousin's parting words, bringing a fresh spurt of anger. He knew Daniela loved him and meant well, but he really wished she—as well as her mother and sisters—would butt out of his personal life. He didn't need them psychoanalyzing his reasons for wanting to remain single. And he sure as hell didn't need them interfering in his relationship with Tommie.

Relationship? Is that what you're calling it now?

More like an obsession
, Paulo mused, his mouth twisting sardonically. He couldn't think of any other word to describe his preoccupation with Tommie. He thought about her constantly. At odd intervals throughout the day he'd found himself fantasizing about her, wanting her, thinking about wrapping his arms around her and saying to hell with his resolve not to have her. He'd daydreamed about stripping off her clothes, kissing those lush, incredible breasts, tangling his fingers in her long, thick hair as he ran his tongue down her glorious body.

“Shit!” Paulo muttered, so caught up in the fantasy that he nearly missed the turnoff to his street. He gave himself a hard mental shake, forcing thoughts of Tommie out of his mind as he parked in front of his apartment building.

The property featured covered parking, a swimming pool, a newly renovated clubhouse, and a host of other amenities that were wasted on Paulo, for all the time he spent at home. When he first moved to Houston and began apartment-hunting, all he'd required was affordable rent and proximity to the police station. He wasn't looking to buy or put down roots. He still owned a house in San Antonio that he and Jacinta had purchased shortly after getting married, a small starter home with blue shutters and a big backyard that was perfect for the slew of kids they'd planned to have. But the kids never came, and two years later, he and Jacinta went their separate ways. He lamented the absence of children more than the departure of his wife.

Paulo entered his apartment, tossed his keys onto a side table, and hit the light switch. Walking into the living room, he snagged the remote control and turned on the big-screen television, one of the few items Jacinta had let him keep after the divorce.

Seeing the blinking light on his telephone, he checked his voice mail messages. After listening to the soft, purring voices of two women he couldn't readily identify, he muttered a curse on all females who didn't leave their names on answering machines.

Shrugging out of his jacket and shoulder holster, he made his way past the dining room to the small, utilitarian kitchen. He surveyed the meager contents of his refrigerator, grunting in disgust when he found nothing appetizing.

Grabbing a bottled water—though he would have given anything for a cold beer—he twisted off the top and kicked the refrigerator door closed. As he left the kitchen he thought of the delicious home-cooked meal he could be enjoying this very minute if he'd accepted Naomi's invitation to move into the guest cottage at their River Oaks estate. But he'd refused because, as Daniela had noted, it would be pretty damned hard to keep his colleagues from finding out he was related to the powerful Santiago family when he shared the same address.

Paulo knew his modest two-bedroom unit was a far cry from the swanky guest cottage he could have inhabited. But at least his place was neat, he mused, noting the polished tabletops, gleaming leather furniture, and vacuumed floors. Last year for his birthday, Naomi, after one too many visits to his pigsty of an apartment, had decided what he needed more than anything was a good housekeeper. So she'd bought him a five-year gift certificate to a professional cleaning service. It was the most practical gift Paulo had ever received. It was also one of the best.

He took a long pull from his bottle as he made his way back to the living room, where the evening news was blaring on the television. He flopped down on the chocolate leather sofa and propped one booted foot on the coffee table, knowing this would have earned him a disapproving frown from the cleaning lady.

Paulo chuckled at the thought as he began watching coverage of the day's top stories. The lead segment was about a domestic shooting that had happened that morning in the Third Ward. A man accused of shooting his girlfriend's teenage son was on the run, while the victim remained in critical condition at an area hospital. Paulo had heard about the shooting on his police band as he was driving to Kathleen Phillips's apartment that morning. Although the case was being handled by South Central Patrol, which served the Third Ward, all local law enforcement officers had been advised to be on the lookout for the fugitive.

“In our other top story this evening,” the news anchor continued, “police are still searching for a suspect in the brutal slaying of twenty-nine-year-old Maribel Cruz. Cruz, who worked as a legal secretary at the prestigious law firm of Santiago and Associates, was found stabbed to death in her uptown home on Monday night. Police investigators have ruled out robbery as a motive, leaving Cruz's family and friends to wonder who could have killed Maribel—a loving daughter, sister, and friend who will be missed by everyone who knew her.”

Paulo grimaced, his gut twisting as Maribel's grief-stricken parents appeared on the television screen to tearfully beseech anyone with information about their daughter's murder to come forward. He sat there watching the couple, battling a sense of frustration and guilt for not doing more to find the monster responsible for putting them through this nightmare. These people deserved justice. Maribel deserved justice.

But if there was one thing Paulo had learned over the course of his career, it was that justice too often eluded the innocent. And there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.

Brooding, he sat through one more news segment about a fatal car collision on the freeway before he decided he'd had enough. But just as he reached for the remote control to turn the channel, the news anchor, segueing to another story, cheerfully announced, “Aspiring dance students at the University of Houston were treated to a special appearance today by local dancer and choreographer Tommie Purnell.”

And there she was.

The woman Paulo had been trying unsuccessfully to put out of his mind for the past twenty-four hours.

Paulo stared at the television, riveted by an image of Tommie addressing a packed theater, followed by footage of her leaping gracefully across the stage as she delighted the audience with a live dance demonstration. His pulse thudded as he watched her being interviewed by the reporter after the lecture. Beneath her serious facade, there was a naughty glimmer in her dark eyes, in the coy smile that curved her full lips. The woman oozed sensuality even when she wasn't trying.

Paulo felt a current of lust in his blood. Before he knew it his mind had wandered, conjuring an image of Tommie lying upon her back, naked and wanting, her lips parted, cheeks flushed, and those sultry eyes glazed with wet, hot desire.

He swore under his breath, cursing his vivid imagination and the damned news broadcast for making it impossible for him to get her off his mind.

Punching off the television in disgust, he downed the rest of his bottled water as if it were tequila and lurched to his feet, intending to do something—anything—that would free his thoughts of the damned woman.

As he started toward the kitchen to make a quick sandwich, the doorbell rang. Paulo frowned, glancing down at his watch. It was ten thirty. Who the hell was visiting him at this time of night?

He strode to the door and checked the peephole. He thought his eyes were deceiving him when he saw Tommie standing on his doorstep, holding a brown paper bag.
You've got to be kidding me
, he mentally groaned. He just couldn't get away from the woman!

Reluctantly he unlocked the door and opened it. “Well, well, well,” he drawled, folding his arms across his chest and leaning on the doorjamb with an air of lazy insolence. “I thought you never wanted to see me again.”

Those lush lips curved. “That was yesterday. Today's a new day.”

“Is that so?” Paulo murmured, deliberately letting his gaze roam the length of her body. Her long, honey-streaked hair was windswept, falling in coquettish disarray about her face and shoulders. She wore black leather boots and a shiny black trench coat that was belted tightly around her waist, making him speculate about what was hidden beneath.

“How did you know where I live?” he asked.

Tommie laughed, low and husky. “Just because I'm not a detective doesn't mean I can't find an address.” Without waiting for an invitation she swept past him into the apartment, ushering in the scent of the crisp fall night mingled with the spicy, appetizing aroma of Thai food.