by Nora Roberts
“No, I keep my laundry in here.” She bent to retrieve her keys, furious enough with herself to let him feel the backlash. “Look, Frank, I’ve had a long day. I’m not in the mood for your fumbling attempts at seduction.”
“Why, Tess.” His eyes widened, and so did his smile. “I had no idea you could be so … so aggressive.”
“If you don’t get out of my way, you’re going to get a close-up view of the nap of this carpet.”
“How about a drink?”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” She pushed past him, took hold of the freshly pressed sleeve of his jacket, and yanked him into the hall.
“Dinner at my place?”
Setting her teeth, Tess switched off the light, closed the door, and locked it. “Frank, why don’t you take your sexual delusions and write a book? It might keep you out of trouble.” She whipped past him and punched the button for the elevator.
“You could be chapter one.”
She took a long breath, counted backward from ten, and discovered, to her amazement, that it did nothing to calm her. When the doors slid open she stepped inside, turned, and blocked the opening. “If you like the shape of your nose, Frank, don’t try to get on this elevator with me.”
“How about dinner and a hot tub?” he said as the doors started to close. “I know a great place for Chicken Kiev.”
“Stuff it,” she muttered, then leaned against the back wall.
She was nearly home before she started to laugh. It was possible, if she put her mind to it, to forget about the police car behind her, to block out the fact that on the third floor of her building cops were drinking coffee and watching the early news. A two-car accident on Twenty-third held her up an extra fifteen minutes but didn’t spoil the mood she was building.
She was humming when she unlocked the door to her apartment. After wishing briefly that she’d thought to pick up fresh flowers, she went straight to the bedroom and stripped. She chose the silk kimono again, then dumped a double shot of bubble bath under the stream of water pulsing into the tub. She took the time to put an album on the stereo. Phil Collins bounced out, happy to be alive and in love.
So was she, Tess thought as she lowered herself into the steaming water. And tonight she was going to enjoy every minute of it.
When Ben used his key to get in, he felt he was home. The furniture wasn’t his, and he hadn’t picked out the paintings, but he was home. The cardboard box was warm on the bottom, where he held it. He set it on the dining room table, on top of the linen placement he imagined had taken some little French nun the better part of a week to embroider, and wished he could crawl into bed and sleep around the clock.
He put the paper bag he carried next to the pizza before he stripped out of his coat and let it fall over the back of a chair. Peeling off his shoulder holster, he dropped it on the seat.
He could smell her. Even here, barely three steps inside the door, he could smell her. Soft, subtle, elegant. Drawing her in, he found fatigue warring against a need he’d yet to find a way to curb.
“Tess?”
“Back here. I’m in the tub. I’ll be out in a minute.”
He followed her scent and the sound of water. “Hi.” When she glanced up at him, he believed he saw her color rise a bit. Funny lady, he thought as he moved over to sit on the edge of the tub. She could make a man pant in bed, but she blushed when he caught her in a bubble bath.
“I didn’t know how long you’d be.” She stopped herself from sinking farther under the cover of bubbles.
“Just had to tie up a few things.”
Embarrassment faded as quickly as it had come. “It was a rough one, wasn’t it? You look exhausted.”
“Let’s just say it was one of the less pleasant days on the job.”
“Want to talk about it?”
He thought of the blood. Even in his business you didn’t often see that much. “No, not now.”
She sat up to reach over and touch his face. “There’s room in here for two, if you’re friendly. Why don’t you take Dr. Court’s reliable prescription for overwork?”
“The pizza’ll get cold.”
“I love cold pizza.” She began to unbutton his shirt. “You know, I had a rather strange day myself, ending with an invitation for Chicken Kiev and a hot tub.”
“Oh?” He rose to unsnap his pants. The feeling that went through him was ugly, and unrecognizable to a man who’d never experienced basic jealousy before. “Doesn’t seem too smart to turn that down for cold pizza and bubbles.”
“More fool me for refusing an evening with the handsome, successful, and excruciatingly boring Dr. Fuller.”
“More your type,” Ben muttered, sitting on the john to pull off his shoes.
“Boring’s more my type?” Tess lifted a brow as she leaned back. “Thank you very much.”
“I mean the doctor, the three-piece suits, the Gold American Express Card.”
“I see.” Amused, she began to soap her leg. “You don’t have a gold card?”
“I’m lucky Sears still lets me charge my underwear.”
“Well, in that case, I don’t know if I should invite you into my tub.”
He stood, naked but for the jeans riding low at his hips. “I’m serious, Tess.”
“I can see that.” She took a handful of bubbles and studied them. “I guess that means you see me as a shallow, materialistic, status-minded woman who’s willing to slum it occasionally for good sex.”
“I don’t mean anything like that.” Frustrated, he sat on the lip of the tub again. “Look, I’ve got a job that means I deal with slime almost on a daily basis.”
Her hand was wet and very gentle when she set it on his. “It was a filthy day, wasn’t it?”
“That has nothing to do with it.” He took her hand in his a moment, studying it. It was rather small and narrow, delicate at the wrist. “My father sold used cars in a dealership that was barely on the right side of the tracks in the suburbs. He owned three sport coats and drove a DeSoto. My mother baked cookies. If a cookie could be baked, she did it. Their idea of a night on the town was the Knights of Columbus hall. I punched my way through high school, crammed my way through college for a couple of years then the Academy, and I’ve spent the rest of my life looking at dead bodies.”
“Are you trying to convince me that you’re not good enough for me because of cultural, educational, and genealogical differences?”
“Don’t start that shit with me.”
“All right. Let’s try another approach.” She pulled him into the tub.
“What the hell are you doing?” He spit out bubbles. “I’m still dressed.”
“I can’t help it if you’re slow.” Before he could regain his balance, she slid her arms around him and closed her mouth over his. Often, even a psychiatrist knows it’s action rather than words that gets to the core. She felt the tension ebb and flow before he reached for her. “Ben?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you think it’s relevant, at the moment, that your father sold used cars and mine didn’t?”
“No.”
“Good.” She drew back, and laughing, brushed bubbles from his chin. “Now, how are we going to manage to get your pants off?”
The pizza was stone cold, but they didn’t leave a crumb. Ben waited until she’d dumped the carton.
“I bought you a present.”
“You did?” Surprised, and foolishly pleased, she looked at the paper bag he offered. “Why?”
“Questions, always questions.” Then he drew it back as she reached for it. “You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
He moved closer, close enough to slip an arm around her waist. The scent of the bath was on both of them. Her hair was pinned up and damp. “Well, I think I’m going out of my head. Yes, I think I’m going out of my head, over you.”
She let her eyes close slowly for the kiss. “Little Anthony,” she murmured, playing the tune over in her head. “Was it 1961, ’62?”
“I figured you being a shrink, you’d fall for that approach.”
“You’re right.”
“Don’t you want your present?”
“Umm-hmm. But I think you have to let me go so I can open the bag.”
“Then don’t take too long.” He gave it to her, watching her expression as she looked inside. It couldn’t have been better—the blank frown, the surprise, then the amusement.
“A dead bolt. God, Ben, you know how to sweep a woman off her feet.”
“Yeah, it’s a real talent.”
Her lips curved as she pressed them against his. “I’ll always treasure it. If it was a little less bulky, I’d wear it next to my heart.”
“It’s going to be in your door in less than an hour. I put my tools in the kitchen closet the other day.”
“Handy too.”
“Why don’t you see if there’s something you can do for a while. Otherwise, I’ll make you watch.”
“I’ll come up with something,” she promised, and left him to it.
While he worked, Tess edited a lecture she was to give at George Washington University the following month. The buzz of the drill and clank of metal against wood didn’t disturb her. She began to wonder how she had ever tolerated the total silence of her life before him.
When her lecture was in order and the files she’d brought home dealt with, she turned to see him just finishing up. The lock looked bright and secure.
“That should do it.”
“My hero.”
He shut the door, held up a pair of keys, then set them on the table. “Just use it. I’ll put my tools away and wash up. You can sweep the floor.”
“Sounds fair.” As she walked toward the door, she paused to turn on the television for the news.
Though there seemed to be more mess than the small lock warranted, Tess swept the sawdust into the pan without complaint. She was straightening up, the pan and broom still in her hands, when the top story came on.
“Police discovered the bodies of three people in an apartment in North West. Responding to the concern of a neighbor, police broke into the apartment late this afternoon. The victims had been stabbed repeatedly while bound with clothesline. Identified were Jonas Leery, Kathleen Leery, his wife, and Paulette Leery, their teenaged daughter. Robbery is thought to be the motive. We’ll switch to Bob Burroughs on the scene for more details.”
A husky, athletic-looking reporter appeared on the screen, holding a microphone and gesturing at the brick building behind him. Tess turned and saw Ben just outside the kitchen doorway. She knew immediately that he’d seen the inside of the building himself.
“Oh, Ben, it must have been dreadful.”
“They’d been dead ten, maybe twelve hours. The kid couldn’t have been more than sixteen.” The memory of it had the acid burning in his stomach. “They’d carved her up like a piece of meat.”
“I’m sorry.” She set everything aside and went to him. “Let’s sit down.”
“You get to a point,” he said, still watching the screen, “you get to a point where it’s almost, almost routine. Then you walk into something like that apartment today. You walk in and your stomach turns over. You think, God, it’s not real. It can’t be real because people can’t do that kind of thing to each other. But you know, deep down, you know they can.”
“Sit down, Ben,” she murmured, easing them both onto the couch. “Do you want me to turn it off?”
“No.” But he rested his head in his hands for a minute, then dragged them through his hair before he straightened. The on-the-scene reporter was talking to a weeping neighbor.
“Paulette used to baby-sit my little boy. She was a sweet girl. I can’t believe this. I just can’t believe it.”
“Those bastards’ll go down,” Ben said half to himself. “There was a coin collection. A fucking coin collection worth eight hundred, maybe a thousand. Fenced, it might bring half that. They butchered those people for a bunch of old coins.”
She glanced back at the lock, now firmly in her door, and understood why he’d brought it to her tonight. She drew him close, and in the way women have of offering comfort, rested his head against her breast.
“They’ll pawn the coins, then you’ll trace them.”
“We’ve got a couple other leads. We’ll have them tomorrow, the day after at the latest. But those people, Tess … sweet Christ, as long as I’ve been in this, I still can’t believe anything human could do that.”
“I can’t tell you not to think about it, but I can tell you I’m here for you.”
Knowing it, knowing it was just that simple, dulled the horror of the day. She was there for him, and for tonight, for a few hours, he could make that all that mattered.
“I need you.” He shifted, bringing her over into his lap so that he could nuzzle at her throat. “It scares the hell out of me.”
“I know.”
Chapter 15
“Tess, I don’t know. I’m not at my best with senators.” Ben sent Lowenstein a snarl as she grinned over at him, then turned his back, cradling the phone between shoulder and jaw.
“He’s my grandfather, Ben, and really rather sweet.”
“I’ve never heard anyone call Senator Jonathan Writemore a sweetheart.”
Pilomento called him from across the room, so Ben nodded and gestured with a finger to hold him off.
“That’s because I’m not doing his P.R. In any case, it’s Thanksgiving, and I don’t want to disappoint him. And you did tell me your parents live in Florida.”
“They’re over sixty-five. Parents are supposed to move to Florida when they hit sixty-five.”
“So you don’t have any family to have Thanksgiving dinner with. I’m sure Grandpa would like to meet you.”
“Yeah.” He tugged at the neck of his sweater. “Look, I’ve always had this policy about going to meet family.”
“Which is?”
“I don’t do it.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“Questions,” he muttered under his breath. “When I was younger my mother always wanted me to bring the girl I was seeing home. Then my mother and the girl would get ideas.”
“I see.” He could hear the smile in her voice.
“Anyway, I made a policy—I don’t take women to see my mother, and I don’t go to see theirs. That way nobody gets the idea to start picking out silver patterns.”
“I’m sure you have a point. I can promise that neither my grandfather nor I will discuss silver patterns if you join us for dinner. Miss Bette makes a terrific pumpkin pie.”
“Fresh?”
“Absolutely.” A smart woman knew when to back off. “You’ve got some time to think about it. I wouldn’t have bothered you with it now, but with everything that’s been going on, I’d forgotten the whole thing myself until Grandpa called a few minutes ago.”
“Yeah, I’ll give it some thought.”
“And don’t worry. If you decide against it, I’ll still bring you a piece of pie. I’ve got a patient waiting.”
“Tess—”
“Yes?”
“Nothing. Nothing,” he repeated. “See you later.”
“Paris.”
“Sorry.” He hung up the phone and turned. “What you got?”
Pilomento handed him a sheet of paper. “We finally tracked down that name the neighbor gave us.”
“The guy who was hanging around the Leery girl?”
“Right. Amos Reeder. Not much of a description because the neighbor only saw him come by once. Creepy looking was about the upshot, but she admitted she only saw him go to the Leerys’ once, and there wasn’t any trouble.”
Ben was already picking up his jacket. “We always check out creepy looking.”
“I got an address and rap sheet.”
Before he stuffed his pack of cigarettes into his pocket, he noted with some disgust that he only had two left. “What’d he do time for?”
“When he was seventeen he car
ved another kid up for pocket money. Reeder had a nickle bag of pot in his pocket and a line of needle marks on his arm. Other kid pulled through, Reeder was tried as a minor, got drug rehab. Harris said you and Jackson should have a talk with him.”
“Thanks.” Taking the papers, he headed to the conference room, where Ed had his head together with Bigsby on the Priest homicide. “Saddle up,” Ben said briefly, and started toward the door.
Ed lumbered beside him, already bundling into his coat. “What’s up?”
“Got a lead on the Leery case. Young punk who likes knives was hanging around the girl. Thought we might chat awhile.”
“Sounds good.” Ed settled comfortably in the car. “How about Tammy Wynette?”
“Kiss ass.” Ben punched in a cassette of Goat’s Head Soup. “Tess called a few minutes ago.”
Ed opened one eye. He considered it best to handle the Rolling Stones blind. “Problem?”
“No. Well, yeah, I guess. She wants me to have Thanksgiving dinner with her grandfather.”
“Whoa, turkey with Senator Writemore. Think he needs a caucus to decide whether it’s going to be oyster or chestnut dressing?”
“I knew I was going to get grief on this.” More for spite than out of desire, Ben pulled out a cigarette.
“It’s okay, I got it out of my system. So you’re going to have Thanksgiving dinner with Tess and her grand-daddy. What’s the problem?”
“First it’s Thanksgiving, then before you know it, it’s Sunday brunch. Then Aunt Mabel’s coming over to check you out.”
Ed dug in his pocket, decided to save the yogurt-covered raisins for later, and settled for sugarless gum. “Does Tess have an Aunt Mabel?”
“Try to follow the trend here, Ed.” He downshifted and brought the car to a halt at a stop sign. “You turn around twice and you’re invited to her cousin Laurie’s wedding and her Uncle Joe is punching you in the ribs with his elbow and asking when you’re going to take the plunge.”
“All that because of mashed potatoes and gravy.” Ed shook his head. “Amazing.”
“I’ve seen it happen. I tell you, it’s scary.”
“Ben, you’ve got bigger things to worry about than if Tess has an Aunt Mabel. Scarier things.”