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With a laugh, Bess chose a wedge of cheese. “I assume that’s a comment on the man, not my buffet.”
“You bet. And the best part is, he’s not an actor.”
“Still sore?” Bess murmured.
Lori shrugged, but her gaze cut over to Steven Marshall, alias Brock Carstairs. “I never give him, or his weenie little brain, a thought. No sensible woman would spend her life competing with an actor’s ego for attention.”
“Sense has nothing to do with it.”
Lori looked away, because it hurt, more than she could bear to admit, to watch Steven while he was so busy ignoring her. “This from the queen of the bungled relationships.”
“I don’t bungle them, I enjoy them.”
“I hasten to remind you that two of your former fiancés are in this room.”
“It’s a big party. Besides, I wasn’t engaged to Lawrence.”
“He gave you a ring with a rock the size of a Buick.”
“A token of his esteem,” Bess said blithely. “I never agreed to marry him. And Charlie and I…” She waved to Charles Stutman, esteemed playwright. “We were only engaged for a few months. We both agreed Gabrielle was perfect for him and parted the closest of friends.”
“It was the first time I’d heard of a woman being best man at her former fiancé’s wedding,” Lori admitted. “I don’t know how you do it. You don’t angst over men, and they never toss blame your way when things fall apart.”
“Because I end up being a pal.” Bess’s lips curved. For the briefest of moments, there was something wistful in the smile. “Not always a position a woman craves, but it seems to suit me.”
“Going to be pals with the cop?”
Once again Bess found herself searching the remaining guests for Alex. She found him, dancing slow and close with a sultry brunette. “It would help if he’d bring himself to like me a little. I think it’s going to take some work.”
“I’ve never known you to fail. I’ve got to go. See you Monday.”
“Okay.” Bess was astute enough to glance over in Steven’s direction as Lori left. She was also clear-sighted enough to see the expression of misery in his eyes as he watched Lori walk to the elevator.
People were much too hard on themselves, she thought with a sigh. Love, she was certain, was a complicated and painful process only if you wanted it to be. And she should know, she mused as she took another sip of wine. She had slipped painlessly in and out of love for years.
As she set the glass aside, Alex caught her eye. There was a quick, surprising tremor around her heart. But it was gone quickly as someone swept her up into a dance.
CHAPTER THREE
“How often do you have one of these things?” Alex asked when he took Bess up on her offer of a last cup of cappuccino in her now empty and horribly cluttered apartment.
“Oh, when the mood strikes.” The after-party wreckage didn’t concern her. She and the cleaning team she’d hired would shovel it out sooner or later. Besides, she enjoyed this—the mess and debris, the spilled wine, the lingering scents. It was a testament to the fact that she, and a good many others, had enjoyed themselves.
“Want some cold spaghetti?” she asked him.
“No.”
“I do.” She unfolded herself from the corner section of the pit and wandered over to the buffet. “I didn’t get a chance to eat much earlier—just what I could steal off other people’s plates.” She came back to stretch out on the cushions and twine pasta on her fork. “What did you think of Bonnie?”
“Who?”
“Bonnie. The brunette you were dancing with. The one who stuck her phone number in your pocket.”
Remembering, Alex patted his shirt pocket. “Right. Bonnie. Very nice.”
“Mmm…she is.” As she agreed, Bess twined more pasta. She propped her feet on the coffee table, where they continued to keep the beat of the low-volume rock playing on the stereo. “I appreciate your staying.”
“I’ve got some time.”
“I still appreciate it. Let me run this by you, okay?” She continued to eat, rapidly working her way through a large plate full of food. “Jade’s got a split personality due to an early-childhood trauma, which I won’t go into.”
“Thank God.”
“Don’t be snide—millions of viewers are panting for more. Anyway, Jade’s alter ego, Josie, is the hooker—or will be, once we start taping that story line. Storm’s nuts about Jade. It’s difficult for him, as he’s a very passionate sort of guy, and she’s fragile at the moment.”
“Because of Brock.”
“You catch on. Anyway, he’s wildly in love and miserably frustrated, and he’s got a hot case to solve. The Millbrook Maniac.”
“The—” Alex shut his eyes. “Oh, man.”
“Hey, the press is always giving psychotics catchy little labels. Anyway, the Maniac’s going around strangling women with a pink silk scarf. It’s symbolic, but we won’t get into that right now, either.”
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
She offered him a forkful of cold pasta. After a moment, he gave in and leaned closer to take it. “Now, the press is going to start hounding Storm,” Bess continued. “And the brass will be on his case, too. His emotional life is a wreck. How does he separate it? How does he go about establishing a connection between the three—so far—victims? And when he realizes Jade may be in danger, how does he keep his personal feelings from clouding his professional judgement?”
“That’s the kind of stuff you want?”
“For a start.”
“Okay.” He propped his feet beside hers. “First, you don’t separate, not like you mean. The minute you have to think like a cop, that’s what you are, that’s how you think, and you’ve got no personal life until you can stop thinking like a cop again.”
“Wait.” Bess shoved the plate into his lap, then bounded up and hunted through a drawer until she came up with a notebook. She dropped onto the sofa again, curling up her legs this time, so that her knee lay against the side of his thigh. “Okay,” she said, scribbling. “You’re telling me that when you start on a case, or get a call or whatever, everything else just clicks off.”
Since she seemed to be through eating, he set the plate on the coffee table. “It better click off.”
“How?”
He shook his head. “There is no how. It just is. Look, cop work is mostly monotonous. It’s routine, but it’s the kind of routine you have to keep focused on. Make a mistake in the paperwork, and some slime gets bounced on a technicality.”
“What about when you’re on the street?”
“That’s a routine, too, and you’d better keep your head on that routine, if you want to go home in one piece. You can’t start thinking about the fight you had with your woman, or the bills you can’t pay, or the fact that your mother’s sick. You think about now, right now, or you won’t be able to fix any of those things later. You’ll just be dead.”
Her eyes flashed up to his. He said it so matter-of-factly. When she studied him, she saw that he thought of it that way. “What about fear?”
“You usually have about ten seconds to be afraid. So you take them.”
“But what if the fear’s for someone else? Someone you love?”
“Then you’d better put it aside and do what you’ve been trained to do. If you don’t, you’re no good to yourself or your partner, and you’re a liability.”
“So, it’s cut-and-dried?”
He smiled a little. “Except on TV. You’re asking me for feelings, McNee, intangibles.”
“A cop’s feelings,” she told him. “I’d think they would be very tangible. Maybe a cop wouldn’t be allowed to show his emotions on the job. An occasional flare-up, maybe, but then you’d have to suck it in and follow routine. And no matter how good you are, an arrest isn’t always going to stick. The bad guy isn’t always going to pay. That has to cause immeasurable frustration. And repressing that frustration…” Considering, she tapped her pencil against the pad. “See, I think of people as pressure cookers.”
“Sure you do.”
“No, really.” That quick smile, the flash of the single dimple. “Whatever’s inside, good or bad, has to have some means of release, or the lids blows.” She shifted again, and her fingers nearly brushed his neck. She talked with them, he’d noted. With her hands, her eyes, her whole body. The woman simply didn’t know how to be still. “What do you use to keep the lid on, Alexi?”
“I make sure I kick a couple of small dogs every morning.”
She smiled with entirely too much understanding. “Too personal? Okay, we’ll come back to it later.”
“It’s not personal.” Damn it, she made him uncomfortable. As if he had an itch in the small of his back that he couldn’t quite scratch. “I use the gym. Beat the crap out of a punching bag a few days a week. Lift too many weights. Sweat it out.”
“That’s great. Perfect.” Grinning now, she cupped a hand over his biceps and squeezed. “Not too shabby. I guess it works.” She flexed her own arm, inviting him to test the muscle. It was the gesture of a small boy on a playground, but Alex couldn’t quite think of her that way. “I work out myself,” she told him. “I’m addicted to it. But I can’t seem to develop any upper-body strength.”
He watched her eyes as he curled a hand over her arm and found a tough little muscle. “Your upper body looks fine.”
“A compliment.” Surprised that a reaction had leapt straight into her gut at the casual touch, she started to move her arm. He held on. It took some work to keep her smile from faltering. “What? You want to arm-wrestle, Detective?”
Her skin was like rose petals—smooth, fragrant. Experimenting, he skimmed his hand down to the curve of her elbow. She was smiling, he noted, and her eyes were lit with humor, but her pulse was racing. “A few years back I arm-wrestled my brother for his wife. I lost.”
The idea was just absurd enough to catch her imagination. “Really? Is that how the Stanislaskis win their women?”
“Whatever works.” Because he was tempted to explore more of that silky, exposed skin, he rose. He reminded himself that the uncomplicated Bonnie was more his style than the overinquisitive, oddly packaged Bess McNee. “I have to go.”
Whatever had been humming between them was fading now. As Bess walked him to the door, she debated with herself whether she wanted to let those echoes fade or pump up the volume until she recognized the tune. “Stanislaski. Is that Polish, Russian, what?”
“We’re Ukrainian.”
“Ukrainian?” Intrigued, she watched him pull his jacket on. “From the southwest of the European Soviet Union, with the Carpathian Mountains in the west.”
“Yeah.” And through those mountains his family had escaped when he was no more than a baby. He felt a tug, a small one, as he often did when he thought of the country of his blood. “You’ve been there?”
“Only in spirit.” Smiling, she straightened his jacket for him. “I minored in geography in college. I like reading about exotic places.” She kept her hands on the front of his jacket, enjoying the feel of leather, the scent of it, and of him. Their bodies were close, more casual than intimate, but close. Looking into his eyes, those dark, uncannily focused eyes, she discovered she wanted to hear that tune again after all.
“Are you going to talk to me again?” she asked him.
His fingers itched to roam along that tantalizingly bare skin on her back. For reasons he couldn’t have named, he kept his hands at his sides. “You know where to find me. If I’ve got the time and the answers, we’ll talk.”
“Thanks.” Her lips curved as she rose on her toes so that their eyes and mouths were level. She leaned in slowly, an inch, then two, to touch her mouth to his. The kiss was soft and breezy. Either of his sisters might have said goodbye to him in precisely the same manner. But that cool and fleeting taste of her didn’t make him feel brotherly.
She heard the humming in her head. A nice, quiet sound of easy pleasure. He tasted faintly of wine and spices, and his firm lips seemed to accept the gesture as it was meant—as one of affection and curiosity. Her lips were still curved when she dropped back on her heels.
“Good night, Alexi.”
He nodded. He was fairly sure he could speak, but there was no point in taking the chance. Turning, he walked into the foyer and punched the elevator button. When he glanced back, she was still standing in the doorway. Smiling, she waved another goodbye and started to close the door.
It surprised them both when he whirled around and slapped a hand on it to keep it open. The fact that she took an automatic step in retreat surprised her further. But it was the look in his eyes, she thought, that made her feel like a rabbit caught in a rifle’s cross hairs.
“Did you forget something?”
“Yeah.” Very slowly, very deliberately, he slid his arms around her waist, ran his hand up her back, so that her eyes widened and her skin shivered. “I forgot I like to make my own moves.”
Bess braced for the kind of wild assault that was in his eyes, and was surprised for the third time in as many minutes. He didn’t swoop or crush, but eased her closer, degree by degree, until she was molded to him. His fingers cruised lazily up her back until they reached the nape of her neck, where they cupped and held. Still his mouth hovered above her.
His hand moved low, intimately, where skin gave way to silk. “Stand on your toes,” he murmured.
“What?”
“Stand on your toes.” This time, it was his lips that curved.
Dazed, she obeyed, then gave a strangled gasp when he increased the pressure on her back and pressed them center to center. His eyes stayed open as he moved his mouth to hers, brushing, nipping, then taking, in a dreamy kind of possession that had her own vision blurring.
The humming in her brain increased until it was a wall of sound, unrecognizable. She was deaf to everything else, even her own throaty moan as he dipped his tongue between her lips to seduce hers.
It was all slow-motion and soft-focus, but that didn’t stop the heat from building. She could feel the little flames start to flare where she was pressed most intimately against him, then spread long, patient fingers of fire outward. Everywhere.
He never pushed, he never pressured, he savored, as a man might who had enjoyed a satisfying meal and was content to linger over a tasty dessert. Even knowing she was being sampled, tested, lazily consumed, she couldn’t protest. For the first time in her life, Bess understood what it was to be helplessly seduced.
He hadn’t meant to do this. He’d been thinking about doing just this for hours. However much pleasure it gave him to feel her curvy body melt against his, to hear those small, vulnerable sounds vibrating in her throat, to taste that dizzy passion on her lips, he knew he’d made a mistake.
She wasn’t his type. And he was going to want more.
The instinct he’d been born with and then honed during his years on the force helped him to hold back that part of himself that, if let loose, could turn the evening into a disaster for both of them. Still, he lingered another moment, taking himself to the edge. When his system was churning with her, and his mind was clouded with visions of peeling her out of that swatch of a dress, he stepped back. He supported her by the elbows until her eyes fluttered open.
They were big and dazed. He clenched his teeth to fight back the urge to pull her to him again and finish what he’d started. But, however stunned and fragile she looked at the moment, Alex recognized a dangerous woman. He’d been a cop long enough to know when to face danger, and when to avoid it.
“You, ah…” Where was all her glib repartee? Bess wondered. It was a little difficult to think when she wasn’t sure her head was still on her shoulders. “Well,” she managed, and settled for that.
“Well.” He let her go and added a cocky grin before he walked back to the elevator. Though his stance was relaxed, he was praying the elevator would come quickly, before he lost it and crawled back to her door. She was still there when the elevator rumbled open. Alex let out a quiet, relieved breath as he stepped inside and leaned against the back wall. “See you around, McNee,” he said as the doors slid shut.
“Yeah.” She stared at the mural-covered walls. “See you around.”
“Holly hasn’t been able to stop talking about that party.” Judd was scarfing down a blueberry muffin as Alex cruised Broadway. “It made her queen of the teachers’ lounge.”
“I bet.” Alex didn’t want to think about Bess’s party. He especially didn’t want to think about what would be after the party. Work was what he needed to concentrate on, and right now work meant following up on the few slim leads they’d hassled out of Domingo.
“If Domingo’s given it to us straight, Angie Horowitz was excited about a new john.” Alex tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. “He’d hired her two Wednesdays running, dressed good, tipped big.”
Judd nodded as he brushed muffin crumbs from his shirt. “And she was killed on a Wednesday. So was Rita Shaw. It’s still pretty thin, Alex.”
“So we make it thick.” It continued to frustrate him that they’d wasted time interrogating the desk clerks at the two fleabag hotels where the bodies had been found. Like most in their profession, the clerks had seen nothing. Heard nothing. Knew nothing.
