Yours in Black Lace (10 page)

“No, I’m putting on a disguise.”

Hmm. Which black-lace letter was that from? “Don’t bother, lady. I’d recognize you anywhere.”

“Even dressed like this?”

He turned to look at her and couldn’t help but grin. Despite her attempts to strut like a runway model, he didn’t know of any designer who’d have sketched this particular outfit.

Stevie had on one of his rugby shirts, buttoned to the neck and hanging down to the middle of her thighs. At least he thought they were her thighs. She was wearing his baggiest sweatpants, too. A paisley bandana totally covered her hair and her eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses. What made the outfit so comical was that his rugby shirt fit her.

“How did you manage to gain sixty pounds in the last ten minutes?”

“I’m wearing every T-shirt you own under here.” Stevie flashed him a bright smile and patted her falsely ample hips.

“Should I even ask why you’re dressed like that?”

A light flush colored her cheeks. “I may be stubborn, but I’m not stupid. I really want to tour Naples today and this is my way of being cautious.”

Emelio crossed his arms. “Okay, you’ve done a hell of a job changing your profile and hiding your most notable features. But I’m still not sure—”

Her voice took on a steel edge. “Just know, I am leaving this house today. With or without you.”

Like hell. Maybe she didn’t take him seriously, but he wasn’t about to put her at risk. He scowled at her. “Do you really think I’d let you go alone?”

“No, chér. I know you wouldn’t.” Stevie angled her head to one side, her expression apologetic and yet full of mischief. “That’s why I’ve come up with a disguise for you, too.”

A half hour later, Emelio caught his reflection in a store window and grimaced. Beneath an unbuttoned cotton shirt, his disguise consisted of only one T-shirt, but with the addition of a small pillow to conceal his lean build. He pulled the baseball cap a little lower over his eyes. “I don’t remember James Bond ever wearing a getup like this.”

“Sorry, but a tuxedo and handgun might have raised a few eyebrows.”

The temperature was a cool sixty-five degrees in spite of the bright January sun reflecting off the pale sand-colored brick sidewalk. A light breeze carried the scents of sunshine and seawater, rustling the lush foliage. He decided the extra clothing wasn’t so bad after all. But the pillow kept shifting, making his “beer belly” seem lumpy.

“Thanks for doing this.” Stevie reached for his hand.

When she gave him that open, eager smile, he couldn’t resist her and it was becoming more and more natural to smile back. Following an impulse, he ducked his head to brush a kiss over her cheek. As they strolled around historic Old Naples, Stevie’s enthusiasm rubbed off on him, and he saw the area as though for the first time.

The quiet tree-lined streets with their contemporary Mediterranean architecture boasted a variety of upscale shops and restaurants. Yet there was still a quaint small-town atmosphere amid the landscaped oases and wrought-iron benches.

Emelio lead Stevie past the plaza on Third Street South. The murmuring of the double-heron fountain was broken by the occasional squawk of brightly hued parrots huddled in the towering banyan trees.

Without warning, Stevie squealed, tightening her grip on his hand. Adrenaline surged through his veins as he tried to identify the danger. His body tensed, preparing to defend her against any threat. Good thing he’d strapped the Ruger into his shoulder holster before leaving the cottage.

His voice was low and tight as he scanned the area. “What is it, Stephanie?”

“Your paintings!”

Emelio hissed through his clenched teeth and released the tension from his muscles. “Don’t do that.”

She winced and offered an apology. “Sorry. I forgot that it’s a secret.”

“No, I mean don’t scare me like that again. I thought you saw something.”

“I did! That gallery over there has one of your paintings on display.”

He looked toward the shop she pointed out and saw that one of his early works was available from the Hillman-Grey Gallery. He hadn’t known it was back on the market and so readily agreed when Stevie wanted to “check out how much you’re worth.”

“Wow, Emelio. This is great! I’ve read about this one in art books, but never thought I’d get to see it in person.”

Seeing one of his first efforts again, he couldn’t help but criticize. “The colors should have been bolder. And the brush strokes are too hesitant. Really, the whole composition could have been so much better.”

A voice spoke from behind them. “You’re obviously not familiar with Castillo’s work.”

Emelio turned to find a black-clad woman of a certain age eyeing them disdainfully. The discreet name tag on her lapel suggested Ms. Weatherly was an authority on modern art. Her remote glance took in their odd clothing, and he struggled not to cop an attitude of his own.

“I’ve seen Castillo’s stuff before.”

Ms. Weatherly looked down her patrician nose at them and smirked. “I’m
sure
you have.”

He had to give Stevie credit for her self-control, even though her grip on his hand tightened again. “So how much are you asking for this one?”

“José Castillo is one of the premier artists of the century. His early paintings are extremely rare and therefore very expensive.”

Stevie bared her teeth in what barely passed for a smile. “How much?”

The manager named a figure that made her blanch, and even he was a little taken aback. After the gallery’s commission and his agent’s cut, he’d still see a generous increase in his bank-account balance.

Stevie looked at him with a wide grin, obviously having done some math of her own. “You’re buying lunch.”

“Me? What about you?” He reached over to poke her well-padded shoulder. “Business must be slow today. Normally, you’d never get seated during the peak tourism months.”

Stevie grinned and looked over the menu. “So what exactly is Floribbean cuisine, anyway?”

“It’s a fusion of Cuban, Caribbean and American foods, served Florida style.” He choked on a swallow of his iced tea in response to her skeptical reaction. “Trust me, it tastes great. Chef Amaral is really talented.”

She turned her head to look out the window, casually watching the passersby and thinking about the past few days. “Naples is beautiful and you live very well here. So why isn’t this your permanent home?”

“Someday it will be—it’s just a matter of when. Right now, I love what I do. Alex and I talked about forming our own agency for years and, with January Investigations doing so well, there’s no reason to leave.”

Stevie dipped another plantain into the salsa. “Did you always want to be in law enforcement?”

The corner of Emelio’s mouth turned up in a self-depreciating smile. “Pretty much. My parents and I came from Cuba when I was six years old. Pápi always told us how lucky we were and how anything was possible here. He wanted me to be a doctor like him, and he hasn’t really forgiven me for not continuing the family tradition. But even as a kid I wanted to protect the American dream.”

She felt a little piece of her heart melt. How could you not love a guy who said that with a straight face? She leaned her elbows on the table, interested in hearing more. “Was your father upset that you didn’t follow in his footsteps?”

“When I first told him I was going to major in criminology instead of premed, he was very disappointed.” Emelio waited until their waitress had written down their choices of entrée before continuing. “By the time I got to the FBI Academy at Quantico, though, my sister Connie was on her way to a career in pediatrics. She works at North County General.”

Stevie raised her eyebrows. “Rough neighborhood. What about your other sisters? What do they do?”

“Angie is a social worker in the child-welfare department. I worry about some of the areas she has to visit, but she’s very dedicated to her job. And then there’s Maggie. She’s a reporter for WPLG local news now, with dreams of becoming a foreign correspondent. If that happens, I’ll never get any sleep.”

Stevie watched several expressions cross his features and couldn’t believe she’d ever thought him distant. Having gotten to know him outside of the office, she could easily recognize his pride and love and concern. She felt a sharp prickle of envy—her brother Eric had never given a damn about her.

“Why don’t you want Maggie to follow her dream?”

Emelio wiped a smear of salsa from his lip. “I’d worry too much. I have enough problems keeping track of my sisters, even though they all still live at home.”

“They do?”

“It’s expected that nice Cuban girls stay with their parents until marriage. As I said before, my mother has old-fashioned values. Just the same, Connie works at a knife-and-gun club, right in the middle of gang territory. Angie is always chasing cop cars and ambulances. If Maggie got assigned to some war-torn desert…”

Their waitress appeared with the entrées, setting a plate of portobello mushrooms stuffed with Havarti cheese and chorizo by Emelio and put the steak salad over black beans and couscous in front of Stevie. As she picked up her fork, a family being shown past their table caught her attention.

The young woman pushed an infant in a stroller, a dark-haired baby lay peacefully on a yellow blanket, her big bright eyes taking in the world around her. Gazing at the beautiful child caused Stevie an unexpected pang of yearning and envy.

“I just want you to know that I’ll be there, if you need me. That I’ll do the right thing.”

She turned her attention from the baby to Emelio. “What are you talking about?”

His gaze was steady within a serious expression. “Is there any chance you could get pregnant?”

“No.” Her reply was immediate and emphatic.

“How can you be so sure?”

She refused to meet his eye or to dwell on the awful memories. “My ex never managed it, despite numerous attempts.”

As always, Emelio heard what she didn’t say. “I’m sorry.”

In the years she was married to Tom, she’d never once conceived. As it turned out, she could only be grateful they’d had no children or she might never have been able to leave him. Now, though, she wondered for the first time if the failing had been Tom’s, and not hers after all.

When Emelio grasped her fingers, she looked up into the earnestness of his gaze and she suddenly felt trapped. His melodic voice held notes of quiet reassurance. “I come from a large, close-knit family and someday I want a family of my own. If you were to get pregnant, I would of course marry you and give our child my name.”

Pregnant. Was it possible? Her pulse roared in her ears and she’d suddenly lost her appetite, but she tried to hide her distress. She racked her brain, trying to remember whether ovulation took place the second week after menstruation or the third? And which week was she on anyway?

It took all of her effort not to give in to the urgent desire to scream or throw something or just cry. Instead, she eased her hand away and leaned back in her chair. “You could try asking, you know.”

Emelio’s eyebrows furrowed at the edge in her voice. “It’s a little early for a proposal—”

“Don’t make assumptions. And don’t make any more decisions for me.”

“Relax, Stephanie.” He picked up his fork, giving her some space both emotionally and physically. “Let’s not worry before we have to. I just thought we should talk about it.”

Stevie pushed the remaining food around her plate, no longer hungry. She concentrated on identifying the emotions running amok.
Sheepish.
Two otherwise responsible adults should have known better than to forget a condom in this day and age. And, oh, in her most secret heart of hearts was a glimmering spark of
hope.

But mostly she felt
scared.
She’d already been her parents’ daughter, then Tom’s trophy. If she were to get pregnant, she’d instantly become Emelio’s wife and the baby’s mother. When would she ever be Stevie again?

She’d fallen in love with him. There. She admitted it. But in loving him, would she disappear? In that moment of clarity, Emelio had become almost as much of a threat to her as Braga. Either way she could lose her life.