by Cara Summers
“And he tosses the detonator into a stairwell as he rounds the curve?” Cilla shook her head. “Why not take it with him?”
“Because his job was to plant the bomb. It was someone else’s job to detonate it. I’m thinking Tank was working with someone who was standing in that stairwell waiting.”
“A strong possibility.” Then she shook her head again. “But there are still four nights and counting. Why would he blow you up today?”
Jonah reached for her hand and gripped it hard. “Not me. You. And with a detonator, he could have blown you up anytime.”
“I would have found the bomb.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling myself. But if he was standing in that stairwell waiting, he could have detonated it while you were checking for the bomb.” Fear snaked through him as he imagined what might have happened in the garage if they hadn’t interrupted the driver of the van. Maybe he’d been wrong to insist that she personally handle his case. “Cilla…” he began.
“If you’re thinking of firing me, forget it.” Turning her hand, she linked her fingers with his. “You’re the one who wanted a partner, and now you’re stuck.”
He was, Jonah realized as he gazed into those green eyes. He’d been stuck from the first. The thought tied an uneasy knot in his stomach. But the damage had been done. He wasn’t going to be able to prevent himself from kissing her again, from having her again. And as he watched her eyes darken, he knew that she was coming to the same realization.
Cilla was the one who broke eye contact when Mark Gibbons arrived at their table and pulled out a chair. He placed four prints in front of Jonah. “Here’s what we were able to get off the security discs.”
The images were grainy, but the buzz-cut gray hair was clear. The man wore sunglasses, he had a square chin, and Jonah guessed him to be in his mid-to late fifties. He took his time, studying the prints one by one. Finally, he looked up and met Cilla’s eyes. “I have no idea who this man is.”
WHEN HE COULD THINK WITH SOME clarity again, the red mist was still a haze in front of his eyes. Blinking rapidly, he willed it away and focused on his surroundings. He was seated in his car, his fingers gripping the steering wheel.
The fire engine blocking off traffic at the corner told him that only a short time had passed. There were people standing on the street, huddled together for warmth in the chill winds. He’d heard the approaching sirens when he’d still been inside the garage. Bits and pieces of what had happened flashed into his mind in a series of quick-moving still photos.
He’d been standing in the stairwell watching through a narrow opening in the door when the plan he’d devised had been bungled again. His partner had promised no more failed missions, but he’d abandoned his assignment before he’d completed it. Then he’d panicked and driven off.
Again.
Just thinking about the backfiring van careening through the garage had his fury building again.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Releasing his hold on the steering wheel, he beat his fists against it. Then reaching deep for control, he made himself breathe. And settle.
His partner was only partly to blame. That woman had interfered again. The bomb hadn’t been fully engaged when she’d strode out of the elevator and headed toward her car. If it hadn’t been for the clicking of her boots, his partner might have been discovered.
But he’d slithered out from under the car and crawled quietly along the wall in front of the other parked vehicles.
She’d come out too soon. Struggling again to control the anger, he gripped the steering wheel. If it hadn’t been for her, he could have enjoyed the scenario he’d mapped out in his mind.
Closing his eyes, he replayed it. He would have been in the stairwell watching as she’d stepped out of the elevator. And he would have detonated the bomb then. It held a small blast, one that would have severely damaged her car and perhaps the adjacent vehicles. But it wouldn’t have killed either Stone or the woman—not unless they were in the car.
It hadn’t been his intent to kill Stone yet. Just as it hadn’t been his intent to have him seriously hurt in the alley last night. But he would have had the pleasure of seeing Stone’s face when the explosion occurred.
He would have seen fear on it this time. The man hadn’t looked scared at all when he’d opened the green box in front of the police station this morning. He should be feeling the impact by now.
But Stone’s face hadn’t changed expression.
It was the woman’s fault again. She was protecting him, making him feel safe by kicking guns out of people’s hands, checking the cars.
It would have given him great satisfaction to see her face when her car exploded into smithereens.
He drew in another breath and let it out. He felt himself begin to calm. He still had time. Four more nights. Before this was over, he’d see fear on Jonah Stone’s face.
There were all kinds of ways to create fear.
A smile curved his lips as the plan took form in his mind. It was the season for surprises.
9
INTERLUDES WAS NOT WHAT Cilla had expected. Her first surprise was the sign on the door that read Closed Until 4:00 p.m. on December 21 for a Private Party. The second surprise was the wall of noise that slapped into them the instant they stepped into the place.
The party was in full swing. And nearly everyone there was a kid. Out of habit, she moved slightly in front of Jonah. “I feel like I just stepped into munchkin land.”
“Christmas party,” Jonah explained.
“I can see that.” The huge Christmas tree at the far end of the dining room with its multicolored blinking lights was a big clue. And blasting through the din of noise, “Jingle Bell Rock” poured through the sound system. She let her gaze take a quick sweep of the venue.
Two rooms opened off the large entrance area where they stood. Her image of a sports club had always contained lots of huge-screen TVs hanging from the ceiling, crowds drinking beer from big mugs and noise. Shouts, cheering, people doing happy dances and a lot of arm pumping.
Interludes provided all that. There were shouts of “Hey, Jonah,” when she and Jonah moved farther in. And the dining area to the left had the big flat-screened TVs all right. It also boasted a movie screen that nearly filled one wall.
The pint-size customers were drinking beer from big mugs. But since none of them looked to be over twelve, she guessed it was root beer, and most seemed more interested in a buffet spread that offered a seemingly endless variety of pizzas than they were in watching TV.
When she was able to drag her gaze away to meet Jonah’s, he pitched his voice so she could hear it above the clamor. “Christmas party for all of the boys and girls clubs in the area. We throw them at other times of the year, but this is the big one.”
It was big all right, she thought. At a rough estimate, she figured there were nearly a hundred children easy—just in the dining room. She looked around her. Small people in various shapes and sizes also filled the long room to her right. Only here, pool instead of food was the attraction. With its gleaming mahogany paneling and carved ceilings, the space reminded her of the game room of an expensive and exclusive men’s club. Green shaded lamps hung over each of the more than a dozen pool tables. And here and there, adults helped the kids chalk cues and generally supervised the fun.
A woman stepped away from the nearest table and strode toward them. Cilla guessed her to be in her mid-forties. She wore a bright emerald colored silk shirt over slim black leggings, and her long, ash-blond hair was layered.
“Jonah, I was afraid you wouldn’t make it.” The rich voice with its genuine warmth and slightly Southern lilt had Cilla thinking briefly of the TV celebrity chef Paula Deen.
“Carmen, I’d like you to meet Cilla Michaels. She runs Gabe Wilder’s office here in San Francisco.” He turned to Cilla. “Carmen D’Annunzio runs Interludes even on a day like today when chaos is king.”
Carmen laughed, and the sound was as rich and warm as
her voice. “Long live chaos and Christmas. They make a perfect couple.” Then she turned to Cilla and took one of her hands. “Welcome to Interludes.”
“Jonah, come and play.” A skinny boy with riotously curling dark hair shot over from one of the tables. “You promised that at this party you’d clear the tables again.”
“Rack the balls,” Jonah said, stripping off his jacket as he followed the boy.
One of the other boys raced into the bar and whistled for silence. When the din lowered a few decibels, he said, “Jonah’s going to hit all the balls into the pockets. C’mon.”
Carmen put two fingers into her mouth and did her own whistle to prevent the stampede. Raising both hands, she said, “Hold on. I’ll get it on the TV screens.”
“C’mon,” she said to Cilla as she moved quickly to a console in a corner of the dining room and punched a few buttons. Suddenly all the screens showed Jonah bending over the pool table. Cilla stared fascinated at the large movie screen as he made his first shot. Three balls disappeared into pockets.
“He’s good,” she murmured.
“Never seen anyone better,” Carmen said. “We’ve been open four years now, and he puts on this show a couple of times a year. Closes down the place for the afternoon and lets the kids party. How about a root beer? I’ve also got lemonade and more traditional colas. I’m only serving the soft stuff this afternoon.”
“I’d love a root beer.” Cilla climbed onto a stool at a raised table while Carmen filled two glasses and joined her.
The din in the room had quieted a bit as the kids grabbed more food and settled into seats to watch the show. Jonah’s next shot ricocheted off two others balls and sent them into different pockets.
Cilla positioned her seat so that she had a good view of the pool room. She watched as David Santos slipped through the front door. Mark Gibbons was with him. She signaled Santos into the room with Jonah and Mark slipped behind the hostess desk. They’d arrived in three separate taxis she’d had Mark call before they’d left Janine’s.
Catching Carmen watching her, she said, “Two of my men.”
“I know David Santos. He’s a regular customer here.”
Cilla glanced back up at the nearest TV screen. Jonah was walking around the table considering his next shot. He looked so relaxed that his only care in the world might have been to sink another ball. It was as if he’d shed the first part of the day including the bomb scare as easily as he’d shed his jacket.
If he had, she envied him. More, she needed to emulate him. Thinking about the might-have-beens would only distract her from thinking about the what-mightbes. Using taxis for transportation could work for a while. But the bastard who wanted to hurt Jonah would have a backup plan, too.
She turned her gaze to Carmen. “I need a quiet place to make a quick phone call.”
Carmen pointed to a door at the far end of the room. “My office.”
Cilla left the door open as she punched a number into her cell. From her position, she could see Jonah on the screens. A more direct view of him was blocked by the kids who’d moved closer to his pool table.
“Hello, my favorite cop.”
“Not a cop anymore, T.D.” Five years ago, T.D. short for Top Dog, had been her first snitch when she’d been a beat cop. He’d given her two of her first collars, and she’d arranged for him to get a legitimate job as a limo driver. Last time she’d talked to him he was well on his way to an associate’s degree at a local community college, and then he’d married his boss’s daughter.
A laugh boomed into her ear. “And I’m not your snitch. Instead, I’m driving around San Francisco in a honey of a limo.”
“I want to hire you later today. Can you do it?”
“For you, sugar, I’ll rearrange my schedule. When and where?”
“I need a pickup at least four or five blocks away from the St. Francis Hotel between 5:30 and 6:30. My client has a late-afternoon meeting there. Someone may try to tail us from the hotel, so I’ll shake them and then come to you.”
“You got it. When you’re ready, give me a call and I’ll give you my specific location. Bye, sugar.”
After disconnecting, Cilla punched in Gabe’s number. When he picked up immediately, she filled him in on the day’s events and the fact that both she and Jonah had a feeling about the Christmas of 2005. “Was Mark Gibbons working for you then?” she asked.
“He started that fall. You want me to check him out.”
It wasn’t a question. Still, she waited a beat. “I do. Do you think I’m being paranoid?”
“No. One of the reasons I hired you, Cilla, is because we think alike. I’m already checking Gibbons and Santos out. Santos is from Denver and he was in the Marines until two years ago. He worked with explosives, and some of his records are classified. But I can’t find a connection between either of them and Jonah. Yet. Anyone else you want me to check into?”
“Yes. The backers that Mrs. Fortune put together for Pleasures. The deal was coming together that year.”
“So it was. I hadn’t thought of that angle.”
“One of his current partners, Carl Rockwell, was also one of the backers for Pleasures.”
“Got it. Call me if you want anything else. And, Cilla?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t let him get hurt.”
A deafening roar of applause and cheers had Cilla glancing up at the big screen again. She’d missed the shot, but the children were jumping up and down around Jonah’s table.
When she returned to her seat at the bar, the kids had quieted, their eyes glued on Jonah.
His back was to her, larger than life on the screen. Though she knew she should, she didn’t look away. Instead, she let her system absorb the way his black wool turtleneck fit over the broad shoulders like a second skin. The burning sensation in her hands reminded her of how hard those shoulder muscles had felt beneath her palms. Her pulse skipped as she let her gaze drift down the lean back to the narrow waist, the tight, hard butt and those long legs. Her throat went dry as dust.
It had been nearly a month since that body had been hers to touch, to explore at whim. And she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about touching him again. Not during those long lonely nights and certainly not since he’d walked toward her in the airport garage yesterday. The kisses they’d exchanged had only deepened her hunger.
She had to touch him again. Slowly, thoroughly. She needed to feel his naked skin heat, then tremble. She wanted to once more hear her name on his lips. Desire burned in her belly and simmered in her blood. She wasn’t even looking directly at him, just at his image on a screen, and yet the pull, the attack on her senses, were as intense as if she had been standing directly behind him in the room.
And if she had been standing behind him? Would she have been able to resist putting her hands on him? She drew in a breath and felt the burn in her lungs. She thought of all those nights she’d spent without him. Long silent nights filled with nothing but sexy fantasies of touching Jonah, tasting him, feeling him thrusting inside of her again. And again.
She didn’t want the fantasy anymore. She wanted the real thing. Longing spread through every pore of her being, and she had to grip the edge of the table hard to keep herself from going to him. No man had ever triggered this kind of response in her, this kind of greed. She might talk a good game about ground rules, but it wasn’t to Jonah that she had to pitch her argument. It was to herself.
When she reached for her root beer, she was stunned to realize that her hand was trembling. She fisted it on the tabletop and looked back at the screen.
“A lot of eye candy there,” Carmen murmured. “The girls all have a crush on him, the boys all want to be him.”
Cilla blinked, then dragged her eyes away from the image of Jonah. Job, she reminded herself. “What about the grown-ups who are here? How do they feel about Jonah?”
“Probably a mix of admiration and envy.”
“Do you know all of them?”
<
br /> “Met a few of them for the first time today. They’re parents or volunteers and workers at the various clubs.”
“Any of them come alone?”
“No. They all came with groups of kids.”
Cilla glanced back at the pool room and saw that Santos had chosen a space within a few feet of Jonah.
“Virgil told me what happened at Pleasures last night,” Carmen said. “He was nearly mugged. But that’s not all of it, is it? There’s more.”
For a moment, Cilla didn’t speak. Jonah trusted Carmen and Virgil, but she couldn’t discount the fact that someone close to him, probably someone from his past, had a hand in the threats.
But her gut told her that Carmen wasn’t that person. And Jonah’s gut was telling him the same thing. Going with those feelings, she outlined what had happened.
“Well, shit.” Carmen set her root beer down with enough force that it sloshed over the rim of the glass. “This is his favorite time of year. And to me, he embodies the true spirit of Christmas. Jonah loves throwing the parties. Not just this one. The shindig he has going on at Pleasures tomorrow night—all the movers and shakers in the city will be there. Over the years, he’s built it into the event of the season, and the money he collects goes to the boys and girls clubs.” She swept a hand around. “Eventually to these kids.”
“Do you have any idea who might be sending the notes?”
“No.” She met Cilla’s eyes. “Tell me what I can do to help.”
“You can start by answering some questions.”
“Go ahead.”
“Jonah told me that you used to volunteer at the St. Francis Center for Boys in Denver. How well did you know him?”
“I knew him mostly through my sons. He’s wonderful with kids. When my husband died ten years ago, my boys were ten and twelve. They were a handful even then. The only job I could get was bartending. I hired someone to come in at night, but I needed a place for my boys to go after school and on weekends. The St. Francis Center was perfect.”