With a frown, he realized he rarely entered this world anymore. His was such a masculine existence—guy talk, guns, metal desks, dust-encrusted cars with worn-out windshield wipers. He rotated his shoulders. He felt a little out of place here among so much daintiness.
“You like my shop?” Lisa asked him above the sound of hangers being pushed around on metal.
“Yeah, it’s—” He struggled for the right word. “Real female.”
Her laugh was appreciative. “Good. That’s what it’s supposed to be. So, Jordan tells me you’re a cop.”
“Yeah,” he said, but was saved from further conversation by the sight of Jordan closing a door in the rear of the store and hurrying toward him.
“See you on Monday, Lisa,” Jordan said. “Have a great time tonight.”
“Hey, you, too.”
Dom opened the shop door for her, and she slipped past him, turned right and led him a few stores over to a small café. Inside were several white Formica tables with attached benches and a counter that displayed pastries and bagels. “I only have a few minutes,” she said, glancing at her watch. “Sorry. I didn’t know you’d be stopping by.”
“I was in the neighborhood.” He tamped down his irritation at being treated a little like some door-to-door salesman. He had no right to be reacting like this, he told himself. After all, he had popped in on her uninvited, and obviously she had plans.
A date? He felt his jaw muscles tensing at the concept.
Hey, Dom told himself. Hold up here. What was this? Jealousy? Possessiveness? Not his style. And anyway, it wasn’t as if he had any claim on Jordan’s time. It wasn’t like they’d been dating for months or anything like that. Whatever was between them was in the future. And, from the way she was acting at the moment, there didn’t seem to be much of a future for them, anyway.
Sit on it, D’Annunzio, he told himself. Settle down.
But, man, it was difficult to do just that. The sight of Jordan in a long flowered skirt and green short-sleeved sweater, the smell of her, the memory of the taste of her—all these combined to send his body into hyperactivity, male of the species version.
He had it bad. He hungered for her. In his entire life, had it ever been this strong? This sense of urgency, this compulsion to bury himself in a woman? Never, he thought, never in all the years before, during and after Theresa, and that little fact made him uneasy as hell.
She sat at a small round table by the window, fidgeting with her rings, while he paid for a couple of cups of coffee plus two jelly doughnuts—a belated lunch for him. He set the food down, then slid into his seat.
“Thanks,” she said, stirring in some cream.
“I kind of took you by surprise, huh?” he said.
“Yes.” With a small shrug of her narrow shoulders, she smiled. “But it’s good to see you.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, absolutely.” She seemed sincere, or he wanted her to be. “Of course.”
He felt his inner tension loosen a little around the edges. “Good. Well, look, the reason I’m here—” He paused, took a sip of his coffee, set it down and glanced around the café.
There were eight or so tables in the place, half of them occupied, but at the moment, no one was nearby. So he could do this subtly, could take his time, lead up to it. He could sweet-talk her—hell, he knew how.
But she seemed in a hurry to get someplace, and besides, he had no patience today. None. Action was called for. He would put his cards on the table, see what happened next. He took a deep breath and plunged in.
“Jordan,” he began, “I’m not good with words, but here’s the thing. With all the stuff that went down between us last night, something might have gotten lost, and I don’t want it to get lost. The thing is, I...want you. I have this...craving for you, and I have it bad.”
She was obviously startled by his declaration, and a slow pink blush rose over Jordan’s cheeks. She managed to set her cup down before meeting his gaze. Until that moment, he hadn’t noticed how very pale she was today. Her lips parted slightly while she looked at him with wonder. Her haunted and haunting green eyes had dark circles under them again. Several heartbeats went by before her mouth formed words. “Oh. I see.”
He waited, his stomach muscles clenched with anxiety. He hadn’t done that very smoothly, had he? It was because he was way too keyed up. This woman did that to him, brought out all the sensations that—until she’d entered his life—he didn’t even know he was capable of experiencing anymore. “That’s it?” he said. “‘Oh, I see’?”
“I guess I’m supposed to say something more.”
Damn. She wasn’t leaping up and saying let’s go. He’d blown it. “Not if you don’t feel the same.”
“It isn’t that—” she began, stopped herself and shook her head. “Dom, it’s not a good time—”
“For what?”
“To, you know, get involved.”
“Who’s talking about getting involved?” he answered. “I’m talking about sex, that’s all.”
She recoiled as if he’d slapped her, a look of hurt mixed with confusion on her face. That made him want to kick his own butt around the block. He’d said that last bit as retaliation, to punish her for not leaping with joy at the sight of him.
Why? He’d always been blunt, but when had he become cruel? Cards on the table, he’d told himself. Not a hatchet to the head.
Penitent, he put his hand over hers. It was ice cold, and he gripped it, trying to transfer a little of his body warmth to her. How white her skin was, especially next to his swarthy Italian complexion.
“Hey, I’m sorry, Jordan, so sorry. That’s my stupid mouth. Attack and think later. I didn’t mean it to come out that way. It’s just that, well, look, we got this thing between us. I know it and you know it. Come on, say it.”
Staring at their joined hands on the tabletop, she nodded slowly. “Yes, of course we do.” She offered him a small, forgiving smile. “‘We got this thing’,” she quoted at him.
Relief poured through him like salve on a festering wound, and he loosened his grip. The door opened, and two teenage girls walked in, giggling loudly. Dom leaned closer to Jordan, keeping his voice low.
“I was concerned that what I told you about Theresa might turn you off of me.”
“No,” she said quickly, “not at all. I was...honored that you trusted me.”
“Good.” He expelled a relieved breath. Okay. They’d picked their way through a potential mine field, and the rest should be smooth sailing. “So,” he went on with more confidence, “I want the next step, and I hope you do, too. I can’t get you out of my head, Jordan. I wish I could, but I can’t. I want you out of my head and into my bed—” He stopped, chuckled ruefully. “Forgive the poetry.”
Another moment passed while she lifted her gaze to him, stared, then shook her head slowly. “You leave me breathless.”
“Is that good?”
Jordan found herself answering Dom’s question with a laugh. It was a pretty weak laugh, but she was amazed she could get enough air through her lungs to do even that. Every word out of Dom’s mouth so far had taken her completely by surprise. “I don’t know what it is. No one’s ever come right out and said it before.”
“You serious?” His skepticism was obvious. “With your looks, I would think it happens all the time. Didn’t you get hit on while you were a model?”
“Yes, but when other men said things like that, it seemed...crude.”
“Yeah, well...” His expression was sheepish, or as close to sheepish as she imagined he ever got. “I’m not feeling real suave right now, if you want to know the truth.”
There it was again, Jordan thought, her heart turning over in her chest with a thump that must have been audible. One more brief glimpse of vulnerability that made her want to cradle Dom’s face between her hands and murmur soothing words to him. Whenever Dom let her in, past the wisecracks and the surly facade, it affected her in a deeply soulful way. “
You may not feel very smooth,” she said, “but I feel flattered. You do that to me. You make me feel very desirable.”
He raised the hand he was holding, turned it palm up, and with his other hand rubbed his callused fingertips over her wrist, the pad of her palm, the spaces between her fingers. The jolt of sensation this caused sent a warm shiver through her whole body.
“Do you like feeling desired?” he asked huskily.
“Yes, of course I do—”
“Then come with me—” he pierced her with the intensity of his gaze “—now.”
“Oh, Dom...” As she struggled to find the right words, her glance caught the large clock on the cafe wall. Oh, lord, it was 6:30.
Timing was the secret to a successful life—Jordan had read that somewhere—but at the moment, the timing, hers and Dom’s, was about as bad as it could be. Here she was, listening as Dom was saying the words she’d wanted to hear, but she couldn’t stay to hear them.
She had to get to that locker. Immediately. And she couldn’t let him know that, or why.
She withdrew her hand from his and stood up abruptly. “Look, can we talk about this some other time?”
“Huh?” he said, obviously taken aback. Then he went immediately on guard. Leaning back, he assessed her from under hooded lids. “Hey, Jordan, I’m a big boy. If it’s no, all you have to do is say so.” One side of his mouth quirked up. “They taught us that in sensitivity class,” he added sarcastically.
She’d hurt his feelings. She knew him well enough to see through his flip remarks But she had to get away from Dom. The way he made her melt inside, if she stayed, she would tell him where she was going, and that would be a stupid thing to do.
“Dom, please believe me. I’m not saying no. It’s just that I can’t talk about it right now. I have a...previous engagement. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
She got her purse and scooted out the door, not allowing herself to look back.
Dom sat frowning in the coffee shop after Jordan’s abrupt departure. Previous engagement, she’d said. One of those fuzzy, polite phrases out of the book of etiquette that meant squat. Previous engagement. Did that mean she did have a date? It was Saturday night, so why not? Why had he expected her to be waiting for him to show up like some maiden in her castle waiting for the prince? Why had he fantasized that they’d take one look at each other and he’d whisk her away some-where—preferably a bed—and they’d pick up where they’d left off last night? What kind of dream world had he been living in all day?
Reality time. He and Jordan had shared a couple of hot kisses last night. So what? By this morning, they’d each of them gone back to their real lives—his as a cop, hers as the socialite widow with a part-time job. Sure, she was attracted to him, but so what? She probably got attracted to a lot of people and didn’t hop into bed with all of them. In coming to her shop, he’d been operating out of his body’s need for her, on his own timetable and not even thinking about hers.
Angry at himself, he bit off a hunk of doughnut and chewed it, barely tasting the sweet, buttery texture.
Did she have a date? Was there some guy she was sleeping with? He hated the rage that came over him at the thought. Hell, he almost hated Jordan Carlisle for being the cause of these damned primitive emotions. He’d honestly thought he’d shut down, that people couldn’t have that kind of effect on him any more. Fool that he was, he’d been convinced that when Theresa died, he’d buried passion with her.
Surprise, surprise, he thought wryly. Jordan Carlisle made him see what a self-deluding idiot he could be.
He glanced out the window of the coffee shop. It was night time now. Traffic moved slowly by on Santa Monica Boulevard. People strolled or hurried along the sidewalk, kids on skates, babies in strollers. But no Jordan. She was gone. What he wanted to do was to follow her, to see where she went, what she did and who she did it with.
Uh-uh. He shook his head. Cool down, he told himself. No, he would not go there, would not go over the edge and into what the books called “inappropriate behavior.” To follow Jordan would place him a couple of degrees this side of being a stalker, no better than some of the low-life weirdos he came across on the job.
So, no, he would not follow Jordan. He would make other plans for the evening, because he realized suddenly that he didn’t want to be alone. In truth, from the moment Jordan had walked out of the coffee shop, Dom had felt the loneliness closing over him like a cloudy sky.
He could go back to the station, he supposed, hang out with whoever was on duty.
Nah. Pathetic. He had the evening free—use it.
He went to a pay phone and called his partner. Steve and his wife were always after him to come over for dinner. Maybe he could do it tonight. But there was no answer at Steve’s, and when the machine picked up, he didn’t leave word.
He punched in Nick’s number, and when his friend answered, Dom felt more relief at the sound of his buddy’s voice than he wanted to admit.
“Hey, Nick,” he said.
“Dom. How’s it going?”
“Okay.”
“Hey, that Jordan is terrific. How the hell’d you get a woman like that, you bum?”
“You want lessons? Anytime.”
Nick’s chuckle was appreciative. “No, seriously, I liked her a lot. Have you been seeing her a while?”
“Nah. Not long at all.”
“Well, hey, don’t let this one get away.”
“You know me—it lasts as long as it lasts.”
In the silence on the other end of the line, he could almost see Nick nodding. “Love ‘em and leave ’em D’Annunzio.”
“Like they used to say about you, only different last name. Before Carly, of course. Speaking of which, you two going out tonight?”
“Carly’s back in Boston, didn’t I tell you? She’s getting her apartment closed up and having her stuff shipped out here. Listen, we’ve set the date. We’re getting married next month.”
“Huh? You serious?” Why was he surprised—Nick and Carly had been inseparable since they’d met. But now there would be one less buddy to hang out with.
“Totally. And, the thing is, I want you to be my best man. I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“Well, gee, sure. Yeah, thanks for asking. Really.” Nick’s request made Dom feel kind of squirmy inside, moved, sort of. What was happening to him? Jordan, that was what. Open up that Pandora’s box of emotions and look what you got. In the next minute he’d be weeping into the phone.
Okay, he told himself Enough of this. “Do I have to wear a tux?”
“Yes. And if I can do it, you can, too.”
“Like a bunch of damned penguins,” he grumbled. “Well, okay. But that’s a month away. Meantime, you want to meet me for a brewskie?”
“Morgan R’s. Fifteen minutes.”
He was so grateful to Nick for being available that if he didn’t know himself better, he’d have sworn he wanted to jump for joy.
At Union Station, passengers hurried by on either side of her as Jordan made her way toward the row of lockers. When she found the right one, she fingered the key in her pocket, hesitating. A feeling of dissociation came over her, as though she’d left her body and was watching it from a distance. It was like a scene in a movie. Slender woman in skirt deciding whether or not to unlock a door, as though her life depended on it.
Foolishness, she told herself. Get it over with and go home.
Stiffening her spine, Jordan glanced both ways, then inserted the key in the lock. She opened the door to see a single, thin manila envelope inside. Nothing else. No bomb—of course not. Laughing nervously, she felt relief flooding her bloodstream as she took the envelope. She wanted to rip it open right away. Instead, she held it in her hand while she found a corner near the freight elevator that was relatively quiet. Once there, she leaned against the wall and opened the buff-colored envelope.
The first thing she pulled out was an eight-by-ten color photo of a towheaded young boy. He
r experienced eye registered that this was not a professional portrait. It had probably been blown up from a home snapshot, but it was much clearer than the one last week. It was the same little boy, and—oh, God—yes, it was Michael.
She began to shake then, all over, with emotion. Yes, it had been a year since she’d seen him, and yes, a young child changed a lot in a year—yes, yes, yes, she knew all the arguments.
But unless Nature had played some sort of horrible genetic joke on her by creating two identical children with different mothers, there was no doubt in her mind. This was her child, her Michael.
He was alive!
The shaking was so intense, her knees could no longer support her. She sank onto a small bench. Feeling faint, she lowered her head to her lap and tried to breathe deeply. But her mind wouldn’t settle down. How could it? It was difficult to take it in, to make it real.
All the pain, the mourning, the funeral, the depression. And all the while, miracle of miracles, the child she thought she had buried was not dead.
Then who had she buried? The thought intruded. Who was the child in that grave?
No, she couldn’t focus on that, not now. There were too many other exhilarating emotions swirling inside her. Tears of relief and joy filled her eyes. Closing them, she rocked back and forth, hugging herself.
“Are you all right?”
Jordan raised her head to see an elderly gray-haired lady with a worried expression on her face. The woman’s hands clutched the handles of an aluminum walker.
Jordan smiled. “Yes, thank you. I’m fine. It’s just some good news, that’s all.”
The creased brow relaxed. “Oh, well, that’s nice.” She steered her walker to the ladies’ rest room.
Yes! Jordan thought. Good news. The best news in the world. Her son was alive. Now she wanted him back, whatever it took.
A letter was paper-clipped to the picture. Eagerly, she unfolded it and read it.
“If this is your son,” it said, “I believe a reward is in order. Bring five thousand in earnest money to Carlo’s, 310 Azusa Street in downtown Los Angeles, Monday night at eight o’clock, rear booth. Please come alone. If you bring m the law, I’ll be unable to supply you with any further information.” The letter ended with. “I am watching you. A friend.”
The Tough Guy and the Toddler Page 11