by Julie James
“True. But in this alternate universe where you walked up to me that night, the odds are that you still would’ve found some way to annoy me.”
“Maybe. But, deep down, there would’ve been a part of you that would’ve been attracted to me, nevertheless.” He slowed down as they reached her front door. “Which means you would’ve said yes when I asked to walk you home that night, and we would’ve ended up right here, on your doorstep. With you wondering if I was going to give you a good-night kiss.”
Her pulse began to race when he took a step closer.
Stay cool, Slade.
“Actually, I probably would’ve said that a kiss isn’t such a good idea, with us being neighbors.”
“And I probably would’ve said that you’re overthinking things.” He put one hand on the wall next to her, trapping her in.
Wow, had his eyes suddenly gone all sexy and smoky.
She fought to keep her voice steady, despite the fact that her sassy subconscious had just jumped up and screamed Yes! Finally! and now was eagerly waving Ford in with two lit air-traffic control beacons. Straight ahead. Keep it coming, big boy. “And that probably would’ve annoyed me.”
His lips curved. “Probably.” He bent his head, his voice turning husky. “But I would’ve kissed you anyway.”
She closed her eyes and sucked in a breath when his mouth brushed over hers in a teasing caress that shot a thrill of anticipation down to her toes. Momentarily forgetting everything else except her need to feel more of him, she slid her hands up his toned, solid chest and curled her fingers into his shirt.
He growled softly and pressed her lips open, pushing her back against the door. When his tongue wound hotly around hers, she moaned and arched against him. He cupped her cheek with one hand, kissing her so thoroughly that they both were breathless as he slid one thigh between hers, his other hand gripping her hip possessively and—
A door opened farther down the hallway.
They immediately sprang apart. Victoria turned and pretended to be searching for her keys in her purse as Ford shoved his hands in his pockets and gave a nonchalant nod over his shoulder. “Hey, Dean.”
“Hey, Ford.”
Her cheeks flushed both from the kiss and from nearly being caught, Victoria looked up and smiled at Dean, her neighbor in unit 4A, as he walked into the waiting elevator. She unlocked her door and stepped inside her loft, then turned around.
When it was just the two of them again, Ford leaned against the doorjamb, peering down at her with eyes that were a warm, heated blue. “I think it’s safe to say that if things had gone differently at the bar that night, that would’ve been one hell of a kiss.”
“Maybe.” She stepped closer. “But this would’ve been the part when I would’ve said good night to you anyway.”
His lips curved as he held her gaze. “Good night, Victoria.”
After watching him walk down the hallway to his place, she closed her front door and leaned against it. Alone in her loft, she touched her fingers to her lips.
Irritating and overconfident, no doubt.
But goddamn, did that man know how to kiss.
Sixteen
AT WORK THE following morning, Ford met with his managing editor, Marty, to discuss a possible idea for a new story.
As was his ritual, he’d watched the local news on TV before falling asleep the previous night, and had seen something that had gotten his journalistic fires going. “The kid is only nine years old. Apparently, his father had come home from a bar and started a fight with the boy’s mother. The boy jumped in to help, so his father put him in the hospital instead.”
Marty shook his head. “It’s terrible, I know. Martinez covered the father’s arrest yesterday,” he said, referring to one of their criminal courts reporters. “But how is this a story for you?”
“They said DCFS previously had been out to the family’s house twice because of claims of abuse, but decided both times that there wasn’t enough evidence to support the allegations. I’d like to know what was in those DCFS reports. And I’d also like to know how many other kids in this city have been victims of abuse or neglect after their families were already involved with child protective services.”
Marty leaned back in his desk chair. “Sounds very similar to your story on Darryl Moore and the probation department.”
Ford met with Marty on almost a daily basis to discuss potential stories. That was part of the job; a good investigative journalist always had a lot of ideas. But this story, in particular, had struck a chord with him, and he was eager to run with it. “I think that’s a good thing, given the interest in the probation department piece. Maybe we make it a series. A whole exposé on negligence in government agencies that are responsible for protecting the innocent. That kind of thing.”
Marty considered that and nodded. “Well, as long as you’re pissing off government bureaucrats, you might as well add DCFS, too.”
Later that morning, there was a development on another front: Vaughn e-mailed over Peter Sutter Number One’s mug shot and Ford immediately forwarded it along to his sister.
“It’s not him. No way would I leave the bar with this guy,” she said, calling him during a short break she had at work. “Look at that blank stare. Seriously, you take this dude home and you’ll wake up strapped to a table wrapped in cellophane.”
“It’s a mug shot, Nicole. You’re not supposed to smile and play pouty for the camera. Try to picture him looking more approachable.”
“It’s not him. The Peter Sutter I met looked normal.”
“‘Normal.’ Truly, it’s great how much you’re giving me to work with.”
She chuckled. “But the good news is, I’m more confident than ever that I’ll be able to ID the right guy from a photo.”
The next morning, Ford woke up at the crack of dawn and hit the road for some light espionage. He wanted to scope out the home addresses of the ten remaining Peter Sutters, just to see what they were dealing with.
Three addresses in, he had to agree with Vaughn—sitting outside these places and hoping to get shots of the various baby-daddy candidates coming out their front doors would be extremely inefficient. First, it was going to be tough to find a place to park his car in several of the neighborhoods. Street parking in many areas of Chicago was at a premium, and often the neighborhoods were zoned for residents only. All he needed was for some nosy neighbor to call the cops on him because he didn’t have the right permit, or because someone decided that a lone man sitting for hours in a car while staring at a house was, in fact, pretty suspicious and creepy. It’s cool, Officer, really. I’m just waiting to see if the guy living here is cute and normal. Why yes, that is a camera with a zoom lens in my messenger bag. Funny story.
Probably not the best strategy.
On top of that, there was also the problem of alleys. In the city, the garage of virtually every house, two-flat, and multi-unit condo building was located in the back of the property, not the front. Which meant that even if he was lucky enough to score a parking spot in front of the home, and no one called the cops on his creepy-looking ass, there still remained the very real possibility that Peter Sutter Number Whatever would exit his home through a garage and alley in the back.
All of which led him to conclude that Plan B was the way to go.
Later that day, he stopped at an office supply store on his way home from work. He carried the bag of materials down the fourth-floor hallway of his building, and made a pit stop at Victoria’s front door.
He held up the bag in his hand when she answered. “I come bearing gifts.”
She checked it out. “Office supplies? Ooh, you really do know how to charm a girl, Dixon.”
Cute. “These aren’t ordinary office supplies. They’re props.”
“Props for what?”
“Our next mission.”
She laughed at that. “‘Mission’? I’m not going on any mission with you. I have work . . . a life . . . things to do other than play amateur sleut
h with you.”
“But you’re so good at it. Watching you in action on Sunday at Public House, that was seriously quality stuff. Hell, I was there with you, and even I forgot you weren’t actually there for a blind date.”
“This is your plan? To flatter me until I say yes?”
Actually, yes. But he also had other tactics in his arsenal. “Remember, it’s for your client. The struggling single mom with the adorable four-month-old baby who really would like to meet her dad one day.”
“You are shameless.”
He’d prefer to call it persistent. And right then, standing on Victoria’s doorstep and looking at her in that sexy black skirt suit and with the memory of their hot-as-hell kiss burned into his brain, he was beginning to suspect there was more than one thing he wanted out of this mission. “It’ll only take a couple hours.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Look, I can’t today. I have a hearing in the morning that I need to prep for tonight.” She paused, making a big show of trying to sound begrudging. “But I suppose I could be free tomorrow evening.”
“Tomorrow. Okay.” He held her gaze. “Thank you.”
She caught his look and pointed, getting all huffy. “You say one word about some alleged ‘soft spot’ and I’ll dry my hair at five thirty in the morning for a month. ”
He bit back a smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Ms. Slade.”
* * *
WHEN SHE DROPPED by his place the following evening, Ford had just finished preparing the last of their props.
“You didn’t say what the plan is. Is this casual enough?” she asked as she walked into his loft. She’d sent him a text message earlier in the day asking what kind of attire was required for their “mission.”
He looked over her sleeveless white top and summery skirt, and then his eyes held on her strappy sandals. “As long as you can run in those.”
“Ha, ha.” As they headed into the kitchen, she shot him a sideways glance. “You are joking, right?”
“Sure. Mostly.” He grinned when she poked him in the shoulder.
She followed him to the island in the center of his kitchen, where he’d put together large padded envelopes addressed to five of the Peter Sutters. “So, these are the guys who live in single-family homes, townhomes, or two-flats with a front door that’s visible from the street,” he explained. “Here’s the plan: you knock on the door and ask for Peter Sutter. Tell him you live a block over and that a package addressed to him was mistakenly delivered to your place. Meanwhile, I’ll be waiting somewhere close by, ready to snap his photo as soon as he comes to the door.”
She considered that. “All right, that could work. But what if someone else answers the door, and Peter Sutter isn’t home?”
“Depends. If it’s another guy, say that you’re a neighbor, that you have a package for Peter, and try to find out when he’ll be back. You’re cute. A male roommate—at least a straight, single one—will be happy to have you drop by again. But if a woman answers the door and she offers to take the package, just give it to her to avoid suspicion. We’ll move on to Plan C for that particular candidate.”
“What’s Plan C?”
“All questions about Plan C will be answered after the conclusion of Plan B.”
“Meaning, you don’t actually have a Plan C yet.”
“This is true. But when I do, it’ll be genius.”
Shaking her head, she picked up one of the packages addressed to Peter Sutter. “There’s actually something in here. What are you sending these guys?”
It didn’t matter, he’d just needed something to fill the envelope and make it look legitimate. “Pens.”
She laughed. “Pens? Aren’t they going to wonder why they’re randomly getting pens from someone named—” She checked out the return address on the envelope, then raised an eyebrow at him. “N. Drew?”
So he was having a little fun with this amateur detective mission. “It doesn’t matter what these guys think. By the time they open the package, we’ll be long gone.”
She looked at the spread on the counter before them, then took a deep breath and nodded.
“All right. Let’s go deliver some pens.”
Seventeen
JUST FOR THE hell of it, Ford decided to start with Peter Sutter Number Six since Victoria had randomly mentioned him in an earlier conversation.
For all you know, Zoe’s father is Peter Sutter Number Six. And Peter Sutter Number Six is going to turn out to be a really good guy.
Here was hoping.
This particular Peter Sutter lived on a tree-lined street in a single-family home in Roscoe Village, a neighborhood on the north side of the city. There were no street spots available within camera range—even with his zoom lens—so he double-parked the car across the street.
Ford grabbed his digital camera from his messenger bag and lined up the shot. There were steps leading up to Peter Sutter Number Six’s front door, providing the perfect angle for a picture. Satisfied, he showed Victoria. “Now, when you get to the door, make sure you stand off to the right side, so you don’t block my shot.” He pointed on the screen. “See? You want to stand here.”
She leaned in to get a better look at the camera, moving closer.
Christ, she was wearing that sexy perfume again. While practically sitting in his lap.
“Right side. Got it.” She pulled back, her hand accidently brushing against his thigh.
Kill him now.
“And remember, you’re supposed to be his neighbor, so walk to the end of the block and head west when you’re done,” he said, forcing himself to stay focused. “I’ll pick you up on the next street.”
“Sounds good.” She reached into the backseat and grabbed the envelope addressed to Peter Sutter Number Six. “Wish me luck.”
Victoria climbed out of the car and got her game face on. She crossed the street and headed up the front steps of the house, a brick three-story set on an extra-wide lot. Being careful to stand off to the right side, she took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.
Here goes nothing.
After a moment, the door flew open and she found herself looking down at a boy wearing a baseball cap, whom she guessed to be around seven or eight years old.
He could be Zoe’s half brother, she realized.
His attention drawn to the handheld game device he played with, he barely spared her a glance.
She smiled brightly. “Hi, there. Is . . . Peter home?”
“Dad!” the kid shouted over his shoulder. “He’s in the bathroom.” Engrossed in the game, he walked away, leaving the door open.
Thanks for sharing. But then Victoria realized—holy shit—Peter Sutter was home. She was actually doing this, like now. Moving a few inches farther to the right, she looked around, as if admiring the yard.
“Can I help you?”
She turned and got her first look at Peter Sutter Number Six.
Average height and build, in his late thirties, he had light blond hair that was thinning at the top. Victoria smiled and held up the package. “I think this belongs to you. I live one street over and it was delivered to my place by mistake.” Given his hair color, she had a feeling this wasn’t Nicole’s Peter Sutter. Nevertheless, she paused for a split second before handing over the envelope, so Ford could snap his photo.
“Oh, sorry about that. Thanks for bringing it by.” Peter smiled and took the envelope from her.
“No problem.” She turned and headed down the steps, just as Ford’s car pulled away. Around the corner, she found him waiting for her as promised.
“It worked,” she said excitedly, while climbing into the passenger seat. “Did you get a photo?”
“Sure did.” Ford held out his camera and showed her on the screen. “But it’s not going to be him. The hair color is wrong.”
“Still, that’s now two Peter Sutters out of the eleven that we can eliminate.” She looked over approvingly. “You may actually find this guy, after all.”
After that, they drove to the Edgewater neighborhood, where Peter Sutter Number Eleven lived in a two-story row house with a wide front porch. Parking was easier to find in this neighborhood, and Ford scored a spot directly across the street.
“I just thought of another worst-case scenario,” Victoria said. “What if someone sees you snapping photographs and charges the car, demanding to know what you’re doing?”
“On the off chance that happens,” Ford said, while adjusting the zoom lens to line up his shot, “I’ll show him my Trib ID and say that I’m a photographer, getting photos for a Home and Garden feature we’re doing on the neighborhood.” He grabbed the envelope out of the backseat, handed it to her, and winked. “But it’s really sweet that you’re worrying about me.”
She didn’t bother responding to that as she exited the car.
Well familiar with the drill by now, she headed up the steps to the front door, got into position, and rang the bell. No one answered, so she rang again to be certain.
No luck.
With a shrug, she turned to go, and made it halfway down the steps when the door opened.
“Sorry,” the man said, out of breath. “I was running on the treadmill and had earbuds in.” He flashed her a perfect smile. “Luckily, I heard the doorbell between songs.”
Chiseled jaw, striking light blue eyes, African American, he was shirtless and sweaty with a towel thrown over one shoulder, and had muscles rippling everywhere.
Victoria blinked, vaguely remembering something about a mission. “Are you Peter Sutter?”
He nodded. “Sure am.”
She held up the envelope. “I live on the next block. This was delivered to me by mistake.”
“Those tricksters at the post office—always keeping us on our toes.” He headed down the steps to take the envelope from her. “Thanks for bringing it by.”