by Julie James
“No problem.” She walked away and met Ford at their rendezvous point around the block.
“Nicole said that her Peter Sutter is white?” she confirmed, climbing into Ford’s car.
“Yep. It’s not him.” Ford watched as she shut the car door. “And I think you left your jaw on the steps back there.”
“Oh, was he attractive?” she asked faux innocently. “I hadn’t noticed.”
He grunted as they drove off, muttering something about her walking to Peter Sutter Number Two’s house.
It was their final stop of the evening, a garden-level condo in Lakeview. Victoria waited at the front door, ringing the bell three times for good measure, and then finally gave up.
Still, both she and Ford were in a good mood as they headed back to their building, having narrowed down the field of contenders to eight. “Do you plan to circle back to the three guys we missed today?”
He nodded. “At least for the two no-shows. I’m thinking we wait until Saturday—maybe we’ll have better luck on the weekend.”
“‘We’ll’?” she repeated. “As in, you and me?”
“Yes, you and me.” He looked over while driving. “Come on. Tell me you aren’t curious to find this guy. I see the gleam in your eye every time we pull up in front of a new place.”
Okay, fine. So she’d gotten sucked into the Mystery of the Missing Baby-Daddy. “Maybe I am a little curious. It’s a different kind of case for me. Normally, I see families as they’re falling apart. I’ve never had the chance to bring one together before.”
“Wow. That is an unexpectedly beautiful way to describe what we’re doing here, Victoria.”
“Go away.”
He laughed, then cocked his head. “I couldn’t do what you do. Seeing families fall apart, as you put it. It’s too depressing.”
“Divorce isn’t always a bad thing. In fact, a lot of times, it’s the end of a bad thing. Besides, it’s not like your job is all sunshine and rainbows. That piece you wrote, about the teenage girl who was killed by that guy on parole? That was depressing.”
He shot her a sly look. “You’ve been reading my stuff.”
“I read the Tribune. Your stuff happens to be in there.”
“Hmm.” He pulled to a stop at a red light and looked over. “Have you had dinner? I was going to order a pizza, if you want to join me.”
She could say no, obviously. She could go home to her empty loft, the same as she did every night, pour herself a glass of wine, and settle in with her book and her bath and have a nice, quiet evening.
Or she could choose door number two, an evening with the irritating-but-occasionally-funny-and-not-entirely-intolerable man who’d actually made her moan on her doorstep the other night from just a kiss.
“My treat, for helping me out today,” he added, with a smile.
Well, a girl did have to eat.
* * *
A SHORT WHILE later, Victoria sat with one leg tucked underneath her at Ford’s reclaimed-wood table, eating pizza and drinking a double-oaked bourbon on the rocks.
“So I’ve been thinking about those five Peter Sutters who live in condos and apartments without an exterior front door,” she said.
“You really are getting into the Mystery of the Missing Baby-Daddy. Is this a ‘Victoria Slade always gets her man’ kind of thing?”
She smiled. “Exactly.”
“Not even going to pretend to be modest there, are you?”
“Anyway, after today, I was thinking that we don’t necessarily have to get their photographs on the first pass. There are bound to be other guys, like Peter Sutter Numbers Six and Eleven, who don’t even meet the general description we have. Why don’t I just try the package-delivery ruse with them, too? I could say I live in the building, and that the envelope was delivered to the wrong floor. Sure, you won’t be able to snap a photo right there in the hallway, but maybe we can eliminate a couple of these guys on our own, just on sight.”
He grabbed another slice of pizza. “I’d been thinking along those same lines. But the problem is, those types of buildings are likely to have a doorman or a security desk—and if that’s the case, we wouldn’t get past the first floor. Not to mention, in a large condo building, there’s usually a mailroom or someplace where the residents go to pick up their packages.”
She sat back, discouraged. “That’s true.”
“But, I was thinking I could try to bribe a doorman. Slip him fifty bucks and tell him that I’m a reporter from the Trib trying to track down a Peter Sutter for a story. Then I ask if he can at least tell me whether the Sutter who lives there is Caucasian with brown hair.” He flashed her a wicked grin. “You’re welcome to tag along. Maybe watching me flash my press ID will inspire a few more of those hot-reporter fantasies of yours.”
“Been waiting for a chance to sneak that in again, have you?”
“A whole week.”
Her lips curved up when she saw him studying her with those keen reporter eyes. “You’re about to be nosy again, aren’t you?”
“Did you know in law school that you wanted to be a family lawyer?”
“I had a pretty good idea that’s what I wanted to do, yes.”
“Because of your parents’ divorce?”
“Because I knew I’d be good at it.”
His knowing look said he hadn’t missed the fact that she’d dodged that question. “How old were you when they got divorced?”
“You know, I’ve taken depositions that didn’t involve this many questions.” She took a sip of her bourbon. “I was ten.”
“Was it just you and your parents?”
“At the time it was just me. Now I have two half sisters, the older of whom was born seven months after my parents separated.”
“Ah. So that’s why . . . ?”
“Yep, that’s why. My father had an affair, then married the other woman when she got pregnant.”
“Are you close to your half sisters?”
She felt a pang of something that stung, but quickly covered it. “Actually, I’ve never even met them. After my parents got divorced, my dad moved his new family to Miami, where he’d grown up. My grandfather and several of my aunts and uncles on my father’s side are very active in the Cuban political community. I think my dad had wanted to get back there for years.”
Ford cocked his head. “Slade doesn’t strike me as a particularly Cuban name.”
“It’s not. I’m only half Cuban—I took my mother’s last name when I graduated from high school. By that point, I hadn’t seen my father in seven years, and it seemed like the right thing to do.” Thinking she’d shared enough, she redirected the conversation. “What about you? Have you and Nicole always been close?”
“Sure, I guess. Although when we were younger, with the nine-year age difference, it was more of a protective older brother–little sister dynamic. It’s really only been in the last few years that we’ve been in the same stage of our lives.”
“Oh, I still see plenty of that protective older brother–little sister dynamic,” she teased. Then she looked at him curiously.
“Now who’s about to be nosy?”
Turnabout was fair play. “The blonde I saw on your deck the other day, the one who said she loves you . . . What’s the story there?”
“I told you, we’re just friends. She’s like another sister to me.” He beckoned with his hand. “Don’t tell me that’s all you’ve got, counselor—the blonde on my balcony. I expected far tougher questions from the illustrious Victoria Slade.”
So, that’s how it was going to be.
Game on.
Victoria looked over at the bookshelves next to them. Remembering how she’d wondered what the artwork, photographs, and odds and ends said about Ford, she got up and walked over.
She spotted something. “This is new.” Pointing to a silver model rocket, she looked over her shoulder. “Tell me about this.”
He paused, and then walked over. “My father and I built that when I was a kid. H
e died about a month ago, and I found it in a box of his things that my mom gave me.”
Victoria’s voice softened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
He gave her a half smile, repeating her words from the other day, when she’d mentioned the break-in. “Why would you?”
She said nothing for a moment, just looking into those brilliant blue eyes of his. Then she returned to her perusal of his shelves.
Very aware of how close he stood to her, and trying to ignore the flutters in her stomach, she spotted a hardcover edition of Factotum. She opened her mouth to say something dry—of course he liked Bukowski—when she felt his hands on her hips.
He brushed his lips against her neck and a heady rush of sensation flooded through her.
“What is this perfume?” he asked huskily. “It drives me crazy.” His mouth glided over the sensitive spot right below her earlobe.
She felt her legs go weak. When he did that, she could barely remember her name, let alone what perfume she was wearing. “The neighbor thing, Ford . . . that could get complicated.”
“Not if we don’t let it.” His fingers slid under her shirt and skimmed over her stomach.
She arched forward when he pulled down one of the cups of her bra. “This wouldn’t change anything between us,” she breathed unsteadily.
He glided his thumb over her tight, sensitive nipple, making her gasp. “That’s what makes it so perfect.” He pulled down the other side of her bra and cupped both her breasts, his fingers skillfully caressing the sensitive peaks.
Oh, God. She gripped the shelf in front of her, fighting the urge to whirl around and climb the man like a tree.
Then one of his hands slid underneath her skirt and past the lace trim of her underwear.
“You’re so wet for me, Victoria.” His voice had a more guttural edge. “Have you been thinking about me fucking you?”
She was definitely taking the Fifth on that one. But then he slid a finger inside her and she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. “Ford.” She leaned back, pressing against the thick, hard ridge of his erection.
“Give me your mouth,” he growled.
She looked over her shoulder, so turned on that she moaned as soon as his lips touched hers. He claimed her mouth demandingly, his tongue battling hers in a hot, erotic kiss.
Not wanting to waste another moment, she spun around. He scooped her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her to the table.
As soon as he sat her down, both of their hands began to move feverishly. He slid her underwear down her legs, tearing them as he yanked them past her shoes. When he straightened, she tugged impatiently at the hem of his shirt and lifted it over his head.
She paused momentarily, her mouth going a little dry as her eyes took in the sleek planes of his toned, broad chest and abs, the strong, corded muscles in his arms, and the light trail of dark hair that disappeared into his jeans.
She was so going to sex this man up.
He pushed her skirt up around her waist, spread her legs, and stepped between them. After tugging her shirt over her head, he made quick work of her bra, and his eyes darkened as he peered down at her.
She went back on her elbows invitingly, feeling an almost painful ache between her legs when he plumped one of her breasts in his hand and leaned forward to suck the tip into his mouth. She threw her head back, giving into the delicious sensations washing over her as he swirled his tongue over the tight bud. He pinched her other nipple and she gasped, a shiver of desire shooting down to her toes, and then he switched to that breast and soothed the aching nipple with his mouth.
Balancing on one elbow, she threaded her fingers through his thick, silky dark hair. “Ford . . . now.”
His mouth still on her breast, he yanked open the button on his jeans and unzipped his fly. Then he straightened up and grabbed a condom from the wallet in his back pocket.
She watched as he shoved down his jeans and boxer briefs. His eyes holding hers, he gripped his thick, impressive cock and slowly stroked it.
And here she’d thought her mouth had gone dry before.
His jaw clenched. “Baby, when you look at me that way . . . ” Instead of finishing the sentence, he ripped open the condom and rolled it on. Planting one hand against the table on each side of her, he settled between her legs, nudged her open, and slowly entered her, inch by inch.
Her nails scraped against the wood table as she moaned, feeling incredibly, exquisitely filled. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he began to move, slowly at first, letting her get used to him. Then he began to take her harder, the table creaking rhythmically as he pounded in and out of her.
“You feel so fucking incredible,” he rasped.
“Yes. Just like that.” She closed her eyes, letting go for the first time in what felt like forever, forgetting all about the break-in, and her panic issues, and everything else, and focusing only on the pleasure of the moment, the strong, cocky, annoying, gorgeous man who was driving her wild as his fantastic cock thrust in and out of her, so goddamn skillfully and rough and hard and perfect that she could scream.
He slowed his pace just as she started the climb to her orgasm.
No.
“Open your eyes, Victoria,” he said in a guttural voice. “Look at me.”
She did, and saw his blue eyes blazing heatedly down into hers.
He moved in slow, smooth, dominant strokes, holding her right at the edge.
“Ford.” She tightened her legs around his waist, trying to get the friction she needed.
He skimmed a hand possessively up her stomach and between her breasts. “You should see how beautiful you look right now.” He leaned forward, and shifted the angle of his hips. “Come on my cock. I want to feel it.”
She dug her nails into his shoulders, crying out as she came. His swore under his breath and grabbed her legs, pinning her against the table as his hips flexed and he pounded into her, faster and harder, until he groaned, all the muscles in his arms and shoulders straining beautifully tight as he shuddered and slowly came to a stop and finally collapsed on top of her.
Neither of them said anything for several moments as they caught their breath.
“I think I might actually be bleeding,” he finally said against her breasts.
She laughed—oops—as he pushed up and looked over his shoulder. There were indeed several red scratches from her nails, but no blood.
She smiled cheekily. “Well, you did say that you wanted to feel it.”
When he grinned down at her, looking all flushed and tousled and adorably sexy, she felt a fluttering in her stomach.
“That’s not a game you want to play right before I carry you into my bedroom for round two, Ms. Slade.”
Liquid heat spread low across her stomach. “I didn’t say there would be a round two.”
He lowered his mouth to hers, his voice husky and wicked. “You didn’t say there wouldn’t.”
* * *
TWO HOURS LATER, feeling deliciously sore and exhausted, Victoria climbed out of Ford’s bed.
Digging around in the darkness, she found her sandals on the opposite end of the room, and her skirt in the doorway where Ford had peeled it off of her. Out in the living area, she collected her bra, shirt, and torn underwear, all of which were strewn haphazardly around the table.
After getting dressed, she went back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. Ford slept on his back, one arm thrown over his head.
She reached up and gently smoothed back the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. “I’m heading back to my place,” she said, when he opened his eyes.
He blinked and pushed up onto his elbows. “You don’t want to stay?”
“I have to work tomorrow. You know how it is.”
“Sure. Yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair, making it all stand on end.
A few moments later, she shut his front door and walked down the hallway to her own place. She smiled to
herself, thinking that someone had indeed looked well-sexed after their evening together.
Good.
Eighteen
FORD SPENT FRIDAY morning at his desk, fueled by coffee while furiously writing a follow-up piece about Darryl Moore and the probation department. And this time, the gloves were off.
He skewered the department for their incompetence in losing track of convicts, and for repeatedly overlooking curfew violations and crimes committed by offenders while on probation. The problem, he wrote, went way beyond Darryl Moore. By cross-checking the department’s files against arrest records, he’d found several other examples of offenders who’d fallen through the cracks, including a car thief who’d skipped mandatory meetings with his probation officer before shooting and killing a fifteen-year-old, and a sexual predator who’d broken curfew seventeen times—without repercussion from the probation department—before raping a thirteen-year-old girl.
. . . records reveal a systemic failure to monitor felons under the department’s supervision. . . . County Board president Robert Samuels said that the probation department is “understaffed and in dire need of increased funding.” . . . Acting Chief Probation Officer Reece Meisner acknowledged that mistakes have been made. . . . According to one inside source, the department has lost track of “innumerable convicted felons” within the county. . . .
About twenty minutes after he e-mailed the story off, his managing editor called him into his office.
“It’s good, Dixon. Very good.” Marty looked up from his computer. “Why don’t you let the acting chief probation officer know that we’ll be running the story on Sunday’s front page. See if he’d like to be quoted in response.”
The Sunday front page—nice. It wouldn’t be the first time for Ford, but still. It never got old, seeing his name, and his words, on the front page of a newspaper with a Sunday circulation of nearly eight hundred thousand.
“I’ll do that,” he told his editor with an efficient nod.
Strutting through the newsroom back to his desk, he dialed up Brooke at her office.
A celebratory lunch definitely was in order.
* * *