The Law of Desire (7 page)

He placed his finger on his chin as he thought about their situation. She was holding out an olive branch and he had basically grabbed it, thrown it on the ground and stomped on it. And he was lusting after her to boot. He could see that the glint in her eyes hinted that she was thinking about doing him bodily harm.

“I said I would cook something for us,” she said between clenched teeth. “It’s the least I can do, and I intend to do it.” She offered a tight smile. “Now please point me toward the kitchen. I’m hungry and the sooner I get started the sooner we can eat.”

Fine. If she wanted to cook so badly, he might as well let her. Besides, once he tasted her nasty food, he wouldn’t have to worry about his attraction to her. Everyone knew his lifelong motto: The woman he would marry, who didn’t exist as far as his bachelor creed was concerned, would have to be as good a cook or better than his mother.

And he hadn’t dated a woman yet who could measure up.

What he couldn’t figure out was why he was even thinking about her meeting his standard in the first place. Why was his mind even going there?

He frowned. “Are you sure I can trust you to make me dinner? I mean, you won’t try to poison me or anything like that, will you?”

She turned and rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you just watch me then, Detective, if you don’t trust me?”

“I intend to, Minerva. I intend to.”

He had to admit, as he observed her working in the kitchen, she certainly had the skills down pat. Even the way she cleaned the chicken, taking the time to burn off the hairs and the few stray feathers that the butcher had missed. She moved around the kitchen like a woman familiar with one. But that didn’t mean the food would taste good.

It smelled pretty good cooking, though. Who was he kidding? His stomach growled and his mouth watered, the longer he sat in that kitchen watching her hum and slice and dice and move around. He figured it must be because he was hungry. That had to be it. And even if she could throw together a down-home delicious meal, there was no way she could compete with Mama’s cuisine, so he was safe.

M
inerva watched as Lawrence ate her food. She guessed he at least found it edible because he was piling it in. He had a little system going—eat a mouthful, groan in pleasure, gaze at her in wonder, squint, frown and repeat. When he fixed a second plate, she knew he must have enjoyed the meal.

She knew she could cook. She’d been cooking since she was a kid, especially once her mother got sick. And when it was just her and Calvin, she cooked for him and his friends all the time. Once Calvin had really gotten into his illegal activities, there had always been plenty of food to eat.

What she couldn’t figure out was why Lawrence seemed so aggravated. She had offered to cook because after her shower and washing her hair, she decided to try and forge a truce with the detective. As annoying as he was, she owed him a lot. And even though his reasons for following her around and keeping an eye on her were outright wrong, if he hadn’t been watching her she might be dead. And having a place to lay her head—her weave-and color-free head—meant a lot.

The shower had washed away a lot of her ill feeling toward Lawrence. But his antics during the meal she had worked so hard to whip up were raising her ire again.

“Does it taste okay?”

He glanced up from his plate in irritation. “Yes.”

“Why do you keep shooting me those funny looks then? If the food tastes okay, then why are you acting like that?” She felt her nostrils flare and she exhaled.

“Acting like what? I’m eating.”

“Your eating like you’re angry that the food is good.” She tilted her head to the side as she tried to figure him out.

Maybe trying to bury the hatchet with this man was a mistake. He seemed determined to think the worst of her and genuinely disgusted when he had to change his opinion—like the expression on his face when she opened the door to her bedroom and he got a glimpse of how she normally looked, the real her. His face went from shocked to interested to peeved in a matter of minutes.

“You know, the trouble with judging people before you really know anything about them, Detective, is that most of the time you end up eating your words and coming out wrong.” She pushed her plate away. Suddenly she didn’t have much of an appetite. “I might not be from the same background as you. And I may not have grown up with the same advantages. But believe it or not, before my brother was murdered and my world got turned upside down I was a pretty normal girl. I went to work and school and I had plans for my future. And I can even cook.
Imagine that.
”

“So are you saying I have you pegged all wrong?”

“If you think I’m some murdering, drug-dealing criminal who can’t burn in the kitchen, yes. You have me pegged
all
wrong.”

His lips curled and his dark eyes sort of sparkled. Her heart jumped double Dutch, speed-jumping competition-style. She didn’t think she had ever seen him smile like that.

Oh, she’d see him smirk and snarl and sneer…But smile? No. And she had no idea his eyes could be so sweet and kind and shiny. If he was fine when he was dark and brooding and suspecting, this new expression made him drop-dead gorgeous. She felt like she was about to be in trouble—deep, deep trouble.

“I don’t think you’re a murderer. And I will admit this meal was outstanding. You can burn with this meal. But you might be one of those one trick sistahs. You know, the ones who perfect one meal to try and nab a guy and then he finds out that’s all she can cook.” He laughed.

He didn’t say he believed she wasn’t a drug dealer. He said he didn’t think she was a murderer. She didn’t know why she was so hurt by him not saying he believed in her. She also had no idea why she wanted so desperately for him to believe in her.

She swallowed as she nodded her head and tried to push back her confused feelings. “Well, since I’m
not
trying to nab a man, but just trying to be nice and hopefully forge a truce, then I guess it really doesn’t matter if I’m a one-meal sistah. But, just so you know…I
can
cook more than one dish. And I’d be happy to cook for you again, since you seem to enjoy my food. But don’t think I’m going to break my neck trying to prove to you I can cook. You’ll have to share in some of the cooking, Detective.”

He nodded with a rueful grin. “My mouth has gotten me in trouble. I was looking forward to seeing what else you can do…”

“Mmm-hmm, I’ll bet you were. You almost had me ready to pull out all the stops and prove that I could cook my behind off just so that I could prove you wrong about something finally. That’s at least something I could prove.” She shook her head. She shouldn’t care whether he believed in her or not.

“If it would make you happy to prove me wrong on this, I’m more than willing to subject myself to more of your cooking.” He smiled.

A real smile.

That could be her undoing for sure.

“This fried chicken…” He paused and gave a rueful grin. “Don’t ever tell anyone I said this, but this fried chicken is
better
than my mama’s.” He shook his head before diving back into his food.

She smiled, got up to empty her plate in an effort to start cleaning up.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to throw this away and start cleaning the kitchen.”

“Waste not, want not. I’ll take care of that. And I’ll handle the cleanup since you cooked. Sit down. Finish telling me all about my judgmental self.”

Her skin felt flush and heat raced to her cheeks. She had called him out, hadn’t she? Goodness, she certainly sucked at the whole calling-a-truce thing.

He grinned as he scraped what was left of her potato salad, fried chicken and green peas onto his plate. “To be fair, you have to admit that your living with the McKnights gave me plenty of reason to suspect that you might be into the same kinds of things that they were into.”

“Guilty by association? That hardly seems fair, Detective. And you also weren’t fair to Timmy and Tommy. They were making a change and trying to do right. They weren’t involved with whatever they used to be involved in. But you still rode them and judged them by their past.”

“But someone killed them, Minerva. Someone shot them both execution-style.”

“That doesn’t mean they were guilty of anything, Detective. It means they were victims of a heinous crime.”

“What was your major?”

His question threw her off track. She’d been set to make her passionate plea about how Timmy and Tommy had taken menial jobs wherever they could in order not to go back to their life of selling drugs. She hadn’t been prepared for a personal turn in the discussion.

“Sociology with a double minor in women’s studies and African-American studies. I hope to go back for my MS or MSW eventually and get a job in social work.”

“Women’s studies?” He slanted his eye and twisted his lips.

“Yes. Women’s studies.” She tilted her head and pursed her lips.

“So, now you want me to believe that you’re a feminist?” He arched his right eyebrow.

“Womanist or hip-hop feminist, depending on what day you catch me.”

“Womanist, huh?” Studying her intensely, he rubbed his chin and it made her get goose bumps up and down her arms and back. “Hmmm…Like Alice Walker…We had to read
In Search of Our Mother’s Gardens
in one of my black studies electives in undergrad. But a hip-hop feminist? Now that’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one.”

“You have to read Joan Morgan’s work, she breaks it down in her book
When Chickenheads Come Home to Roost
.”

He rolled his eyes and chuckled before responding. “The title of that book alone should be the reason why hip-hop and feminism don’t mix.”

“You should read the book before casting
judgment,
Detective,” she said with a smirk.

“Yeah, I guess so, I would have never pegged you for a womanist or a feminist with those little short dresses you were sporting around town. So I guess I do need to slow my roll when it comes to passing judgment as far as you’re concerned.”

She bit back her whole spiel about a woman’s style of dress having no bearing on her mind or politics and her rant on societal double standards. It just stunned her speechless that he was willing to admit that he needed to be a little slower to judge her.

She blinked away the warm fuzzy feelings that threatened to overwhelm her. “So you were all in my business. What was your major in undergrad?”

“I have a bachelor’s and a masters in criminology.”

All those degrees and you still can’t tell when someone is innocent. Wow.

Smiling, she was pleased with herself when she was able to keep the smart-mouthed comment to herself.

“Did you always want to be a cop?”

He smiled softly and shook his head. She realized she could easily get used to his smile.

“My family is full of cops and firemen. The men in my family have just historically gravitated toward one or the other. And when I was growing up, I was the one Hightower who had decided he wanted to rebel. I pretty much pushed all the limits until…until someone I thought was my friend showed his true colors and I got a wake-up call about how fragile life really is. From that point on, I knew that no matter how much I had resisted the family legacy, I had a calling and that calling was to fight crime and rid the streets of drugs.”

She nodded. She could appreciate his calling and even admire it.

“As much as I don’t trust cops, I have to say that’s an honorable calling, Lawrence. I lost both my parents to my father’s addiction. The only thing I can hope is that my brother really held true to his vow never to sell drugs because of what heroin did to our family. And even though I know it’ll take more than me saying it for you to believe me, I would
never
sell drugs.” She closed her eyes and thought about stopping. She had no idea why she felt this overwhelming need to share this part of herself with the detective. But she had to.

“I’m not a drug dealer. And no matter how badly I needed a place to hide out from my brother’s killers, I wouldn’t have spent three months under Timmy and Tommy’s roof if they had been selling drugs. Watching your mother waste away from AIDS because she loved a man who didn’t love himself enough to kick the habit or at least get a clean needle was enough to turn me off drugs for life.”

Lawrence swallowed and nodded. He hadn’t said he believed her. And Minerva supposed she should have just left it at that. She couldn’t make him believe her, no matter how much she desired it. No matter how much she desired him…And she was willing to admit that she desired him. She just had no idea what to do about it.

“Well, I guess that’s enough getting to know you for one evening.”

“Ya think?” She giggled, relishing the easy sound. Was she starting to become comfortable with this detective? Lord help her if she was.

She helped him clean up, even though he said she didn’t have to. They set an easy pace, him washing and her drying. And once they were done she turned to head to bed.

“Minerva.” Her name on his lips just sounded right.

“I like the way you say my name. It almost makes me like it more.” She realized she’d spoken the words out loud before she had a chance to stop herself.

He leaned against the sink and studied her. “It’s a beautiful name—the virgin goddess of wisdom, warriors, poetry and crafts. But twice—Minerva and Athena?”

She felt her cheeks heating up just from the way he was staring at her. They really heated up when he said the meaning of her name, especially the virgin part. If only he knew…

“My mother had a serious thing for Greek and Roman gods and goddesses—go figure. I guess my mother wanted to be sure I’d be smart and could handle myself in the world. I normally go by M. Athena or Thena.”

He smiled. “Well, I’m going to call you Minerva.”

As she thought about what it would sound like if he said it again and again, over and over, he said it again.

“Minerva, thanks for the delicious meal. And thanks for sharing a little bit about yourself with me.” His arms folded around her.

The embrace seemed as if it had started out as quick thank-you hug. But something happened…If Lawrence felt anything like the thousands of tingles that were coursing through Minerva’s body and dancing across her skin, then she was surprised he could still stand. If he hadn’t been holding on to her and giving her a good whiff of his cologne, her knees would have buckled. His arms tightened and hers wrapped around him, too, giving him a long squeeze.

He felt so magnificent, so hard and solid. And her heart wouldn’t stop pounding.

He brushed his lips across her forehead again and she groaned, wishing his lips had touched hers.

“I’m going to help you. I’m not going to let them get you.”

She just nodded. What could she say? She wanted his help and she was finally ready to accept it. She just hoped that neither one of them ended up sorry about that.