by Lisa Jackson
“And you’re willing to?”
“To be a cop?” His lips rolled inward. “Yeah, why not?” He was still working the controller for all it was worth, never taking his eyes off the action on the screen. “But if he thinks he can humiliate me into quitting or can make me look like a jackass, he’s wrong, and sooner or later he’ll figure it out. Oh, damn! That guy’s going to get me!”
For a second she thought he was still talking about Brewster, but then she realized he was angry about the game he was playing.
“How is Heidi?” she asked, daring to stick her toe into dangerous emotional waters.
“She’s cool.”
Hardly. Hot as a pistol was more like it.
“You guys still going together?”
He paused, then looked over his shoulder. “And this is your business how?”
Here they were again, arguing because Jeremy considered himself an adult, yet he lived under her roof and oftentimes was more immature than his younger sister. But she wasn’t in the mood for a fight. Not right now. “Just asking,” she said.
“We see each other, Mom. We go out. Are we exclusive? Yeah.” He threw another challenging look at her, but she didn’t say it, just hoped, as always, that he used his head around Cort Brewster’s beautiful and sexy daughter.
“Okay,” she said, changing the subject. “So, have you had dinner?”
“Grabbed tacos with Cody.” A pause. “And, yeah, Heidi and Cody’s girlfriend were there.”
Of course. Get over it. He’s right. He can date whomever he wants.
“What about your sister?” she asked, sneaking a look at the hallway leading to Bianca’s bedroom. “She’s here, right?”
“In her room.” He actually glanced in Pescoli’s direction. “I have no idea what she ate or what she did. That’s on her, Mom.”
“Fair enough.” Tonight, she didn’t want to pick a fight, but he really had to do something about the damned rifle. “You know, in my house, all firearms are locked in the gun closet.”
Again he looked at her, this time as if she’d gone suddenly stark, raving mad. “Yeah, I know. Cuz we were kids, but now there’s no reason.”
“Sure there is. I’m not here all the time and neither are you. Bianca could have friends over and they start horsing around and before you know it, someone gets hurt. They are still kids.” And so are most of your friends, she thought, but held her tongue.
“Give me a break.”
“I’m serious. Plus, if anyone is poking around, you know, casing the house and they see a rifle, it’s more incentive to break in.”
“It’s registered, Mom. In my name.”
“Doesn’t mean it couldn’t be used in a crime if it were stolen.”
“Who’s going to come all the way out here.”
“We’re fairly secluded, you know that. No one could see an unfamiliar car in our drive as the neighbors are a quarter of a mile away.”
“Huh?”
“Just lock up the gun.”
“No!” He was suddenly angry. “Lucky’s right, you know,” he charged, giving her a shot. “You really do jump off the deep end.”
“Me? No way!” She wasn’t taking this from anyone, especially not her son. “The rules in the house are that guns are locked up, separate from the ammunition. That’s all. Just do it.”
“The rifle’s always with me.”
“Jeremy . . .”
“Jesus, Mom. Why do you have to be such a damned ruleser?”
“A what?”
“You’ve got too many rules!” He threw his controller on the floor in a fit of disgust, then snagged his phone. “And don’t start with the ‘my house, my rules’ lecture. I’ve heard it before. About a million times!” Grabbing his rifle and texting on his cell with his other hand, he turned and stalked downstairs to his bedroom. She let him go. Their gun closet was right next door, so Pescoli allowed him the dignity of putting his weapon away without her chasing down the steps after him, like a nagging shrew.
She would check later, however. Sturgis, though, slunk down the stairs after him, clearly thinking he was in trouble too.
Pescoli sighed. Unfortunately, all of Jeremy’s arguments hit home. She’d never been a person who played by the rules, but she expected it of her children, and as for jumping off the deep end, true, she had a quick temper, but she tried like hell to keep a rein on it. Lately she hadn’t been doing such a hot job, as Alvarez had so deftly pointed out.
Reminding herself that motherhood wasn’t always easy, she walked to Bianca’s room, rapped with her knuckles on the door only to have it whisper open.
“Hey, Mom,” Bianca said. She was seated at her makeup mirror, polishing her nails with a glittery hot-pink color. Cisco followed Pescoli into the room and whined to jump onto the bed, a feat he’d managed as a younger dog with no problem.
“Okay, you,” Pescoli said, and picked him up to drop him unceremoniously onto the mussed pink duvet and assorted pillows. “What’s up?” she asked her daughter.
“Nothin’.” Bianca stroked a glossy patch onto her right index finger.
“I never could get the hang of that, you know,” Pescoli admitted, sitting on the edge of Bianca’s mattress while Cisco dug frantically at one pillow. The mattress sagged a little under her weight. “Polishing my right hand. The left was a breeze, but the right? No way. Ambidextrous, I am not.”
“Oh, come on, when did you ever polish your nails?” Bianca laughed, meeting her mother’s gaze in the mirror of her small table.
“I did, or tried to, with my sisters, when I was your age or maybe a little younger.”
Gently, Bianca blew across her wet fingernails. “I thought you were all jocks with attitude or something.”
“We were, or at least I was, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to be pretty, or hip or popular.”
“And you thought fingernail polish would do that?” One of her eyebrows arched skeptically.
“I thought it might help.”
“I can’t imagine you ever caring about anything so girlie.”
“It was a phase. Didn’t last long.”
“Did it help make you popular?”
“God, no.” Pescoli laughed. “I didn’t take the time or was too impatient to do it right, and my sisters got sick of having to do my right hand, so I gave up on it.”
“You want to learn?”
Pescoli hesitated and saw the earnest look in Bianca’s big eyes. “Well, sure. Not tonight, though.”
“Too busy.”
“I promised I’d see Santana.”
“And you’re late. Again,” Bianca said. “Wow.”
“Work.”
“Like always.”
“I know, I know, I’m thinking about changing that.”
Again, she elevated a disbelieving brow. “Was that right after hell freezes over?”
“You know, on Christmas morning, the reason I was going to the sheriff’s house was to talk about my options, possibly turn in my resignation.”
“What?” Bianca spun on her stool to face her mother. “I don’t believe you. You’d never quit, Mom. What would you do?”
“Pay more attention to you and your brother.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding. Jer and I are never here, and we’re not gonna change just because you suddenly decide to become a stay-at-home mom. Get serious. Oh, wait a minute.” Her smile slid from her face. “Does this have to do with Santana? Oh, God, Mom . . . you’re not thinking about doing anything . . . stupid. I mean, I know you talked about moving in with him, but I thought you changed your mind.”
“Not completely.”
“Because that just wouldn’t work, you know,” she said hurriedly. “Not for me. Or Jer for that matter. I mean, I might have to live with Dad and Michelle.”
“Would you really want that?” Pescoli asked, bracing herself for the answer.
“I don’t know Nate Santana and I really don’t want to. It’s just weird that you’re dating h
im, y’know.” Her polish forgotten, she crossed the room and plopped onto the bed next to Pescoli, her legs folding beneath her. “Please, please don’t do something stupid,” she begged.
“Trust me, Bianca, I spend my life attempting to do just that.” It burned her a little that the kids had oh so readily accepted Michelle when Luke had remarried. However, whenever Pescoli dated, her kids both cried “foul” as if they were threatened by her interest in men.
“So what did you have for dinner?” Pescoli changed the subject.
“Soup.”
“Is that all?” she dared to ask.
“It was enough.”
“Bianca,” she said, “tell me what you ate today.”
“I told you.”
“Soup. That was it?”
“Oh, I guess I had a power bar and a Diet Coke.”
“Anything else?”
“I wasn’t all that hungry.”
“There was leftover pizza and some ham and a spinach salad in the refrigerator.”
Bianca’s eyes darkened. “So?”
“So, it seems like you’re intentionally starving yourself.”
“No way.” She climbed off the bed and glanced at herself in the mirror, caught herself, and turned away sharply, plopping onto the stool.
“What did you eat yesterday?”
“I don’t know.” When Pescoli waited she added, “Mom, really. I don’t remember.”
“Start with breakfast.”
“I don’t know . . . an energy drink.”
“That all?” When she saw belligerence in her daughter’s eyes she said, “Okay, lunch?”
“I made a salad.”
“Any protein in it?”
“No, but I had a protein bar at Jana’s and we went out for coffee at Joltz.”
“You drink coffee?” This was news. Dear God, how did she miss something so basic? For all her life, Bianca had turned her nose up at anything close to coffee.
“I had a mochaccino. With whipped cream and chocolate. Tons of calories.”
“Anything else? What about dinner?”
“What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”
“Close enough.”
“Pizza, okay?” Before she could comment, Bianca added, “At least two slices, vegetarian, with tons of cheese. At Dino’s. We had ice cream afterward. So what do you want me to do now, keep track for you?”
“That would be nice, yeah.” Feeling the argument escalating, she pulled back. “I’m just a little concerned.”
“Oh, Mom, get a life!”
“I have one and it’s busy enough for two or three more people. I really do need a clone, you know. But, honey, you’re a major part of my life, you and Jer are the most important.”
“Hard to tell sometimes,” she muttered.
Pescoli couldn’t argue that point; her job and hours away from the house were a simple fact of life. “Listen,” she said, not going to be drawn into that particular discussion, “I know girls your age sometimes struggle with body image and I just want to make sure that you’re okay.”
Bianca rolled her large eyes. “Mom, I eat a lot. Like tons! But ever since I had mono last year I haven’t had a major appetite. It’s not a big deal. I think that might be a good thing.”
“Because?”
“Because America’s fat and I don’t want to be part of that.”
“You aren’t even close!” The girl was thin, but with curves. “I just want to make sure you’re getting enough nutrition, that’s all. It’s my job to worry about you.”
“I thought your job was to catch the bad guys,” her daughter charged.
“That too.”
“Well, stop worrying about me. Really.” Her cell phone clicked and she looked down, saw a text, and frowned.
“Bad news?”
“No, just . . . Chris.”
“I thought you and he were over.”
“We are.” She looked her mother squarely in the eye. “He sometimes doesn’t get it.” She tossed her phone onto the counter. “He’s such a dick.”
“I don’t think you should talk like that.”
“Funny, isn’t it?” she said, and for a second she sounded just like Michelle. “Because I don’t think you should either.”
“You got me there,” Pescoli said and pushed herself off the bed. It was hell going around and around with her daughter. “Aren’t you due for a checkup with Dr. Lambert?”
“For the mono?”
“Well, hopefully that’s long over. I’m just talking about a physical, y’know, to check on your general health,” Pescoli said, not convinced that her daughter wasn’t sliding down the slippery slope of a serious eating disorder. It was one thing to eat poorly, as a lot of teenagers did, it was another to avoid food due to some freakish perception of weight.
“I’m fine,” Bianca insisted. “At least I was until you got home.”
“Enough said. I don’t have time for this right now.” She heard the words and inwardly winced. Even though she realized that an argument now would only escalate into a full-scale battle, she hated to think that she was running away from a fight that had to happen. Bianca was still glaring at her. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she promised and was rewarded with an overly dramatic groan.
She didn’t wait for a further argument. Despite her texts to Santana, she was really late, so she made a pit stop in her bedroom and changed, slapped on fresh lipstick, and added a touch of perfume. After grabbing the box with the diamond ring in it, she was out the door again, and all the while, not too far in the back of her mind, she was thinking about Maurice Verdago and wishing to heaven above that she knew where the son of a bitch was hiding.
He had to be close; she felt it. As she drove away from her home, she checked her rearview mirror more than once. “Get over yourself,” she whispered, but couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was making note of her every move.
She pushed those thoughts aside and turned on the radio, half-listening to the music while mentally making a list of all the projects she’d have to do when she arrived at the office the next day.
She’d check with Kayan Rule and find out what he’d learned about Vincent Samuels. She wanted to interview Cameron Elders too. She felt in her gut that Samuels or Elders, or both of them, might know where Maurice Verdago had gone to ground. Alvarez could interview the judge’s maid and Brewster’s wife.
Maybe something would shake out.
As rapidly as her tires sped along the snowy streets, her mind spun with the case and by the time she reached Santana’s place, she’d nearly forgotten her fear that someone was watching her. “Paranoia’s a bitch,” she said as she followed a broken path in the snow to his front door.
Using her own key, she let herself in to the warmth and semidarkness of his cabin. One strand of Christmas lights was lit and the muted television was tuned to the news, silent reporters and anchors on the screen. A fire crackled in the hearth, embers red and glowing, flames offering a flickering light.
By the fire, Nikita yawned, the only energy expended at her arrival, his wagging tail thumping rhythmically against the floor.
Stretched out on the couch, Santana opened an eye and a slow smile spread across his beard-shadowed jaw. “Hey, darlin’,” he said, raising up on an elbow, that damnably sexy grin doing what it always did to her.
As she dropped her coat over the back of a chair, he said, “I wondered if you’d actually show.” He stretched, arms overhead, the hem of his long-sleeved T-shirt inching upward to show a slice of his muscular abdomen. Her blood heated a little when she remembered running her fingers along a body sculpted by hard physical labor on the ranch. She also thought about the return heat he gave off whenever she toyed with the buckle of his belt, her fingertips delving and teasing at his waistband.
As if he knew where her mind was wandering, his lips curved into a slow smile. Yes, they had passion all right. She couldn’t and wouldn’t deny that very obvious fact.
“I didn’t think it would be this late.”
“You never do.”
“I know.”
“It’s okay,” he said, moving so that she could sit on a bit of cushion that was exposed due to the bend of his hips. He wrapped his arms around her waist. “I’m just glad you’re here now.” His voice was low from sleep and she didn’t resist when he pulled her down to lie beside him, their bodies spooned together tightly.
“I can’t stay.”
“Sure you can.”
Sighing, she closed her eyes, feeling the strength of his arms, the warmth of his body. The house smelled of wood smoke, but her nostrils were tingled by the hint of soap, as if he’d just stepped out of the shower. “Don’t even think about leaving,” he said into her hair, and she knew this was where she belonged, or at least a very vital part of her belonged, with this man.
“Okay, I won’t think about it,” she promised, “but I do have to go. Soon. I just came over because I have an answer for you.”
She felt all his muscles tighten as, with an effort, she pulled the ring from her pocket and noticed how it glittered in the firelight. For a second, she wondered if she were making one of the biggest mistakes of her life. There had been so many already.
Taking his hand in hers, she wrapped his fingers over the band with its sparkling stone.
“You’re saying ‘no’?” He was suddenly awake, propped up on an elbow, dark eyes searching hers.
“Well, I guess that’s an option, but I doubt I would have driven all the way out here in the middle of the night just to turn you down.”
He grinned in delight. “You witch!” Then, “You’re serious?”
“I just thought it would be nice if you asked me again, on your knee, and this time put the damned ring on my finger.”
He stared at her as if he could not believe it.
“That’s right, hotshot,” she admitted. “You win.”
Lithely, still holding her close, he rolled them both to the floor and then, on his knees, pulled her to the same position, so they were nearly eye-to-eye.
“Let’s do this thing, cowboy.” Feeling oddly shy, she tossed the hair from her eyes.