“I just wanted to see what you were doing for dinner,” his mother said. “Your father is working late and Marguerite is off tonight. I thought maybe we could go out.” She held up her hands, started for the door. “I didn’t know Isabelle was here. I only saw your car outside.”
“Uh, Peter?” Izzy said from behind him.
He grabbed his mother’s arm to keep her from running. “Yes?”
“Maybe your mom can join us?”
Now didn’t that just verge on the truly hysterical? Gee, Mom, that’s a great idea. Why don’t you join me, Izzy and Monk Junior for some chow? Yeah, it definitely just got worse.
“There’s plenty of chicken,” Izzy said giving him a wide-eyed, make-your-mother-happy look.
He spun back to his mom, whose pale cheeks suddenly morphed into a rosy slice of hope. “Great idea. I made Marg’s Chicken Limone. I just need to do some pasta and we’ll be ready to eat.”
Going to tiptoes again, his mother peered over his shoulder at Izzy. “You don’t mind?”
“Of course not,” she said from behind him, and his heart nearly blew right out of his chest. If anything, Izzy, standing there in his T-shirt, should have been beside herself with embarrassment, yet she invited his mother to stay.
He could be in love.
After bobbing her head up and down, Mom angled toward the door. “I’ll just run up to the house and get a nice bottle of wine. It’ll give you two a minute to…uh…well, you know.”
Peter snorted a laugh. “Yeah, we know.”
He reached around and opened the door for her, but when she got outside, she whipped back to him and stepped closer.
“Peter?”
What now? He let out a breath. “Yes, Mother?”
She scooted even closer and pointed to his crotch. “You should use a condom, dear.”
He reeled back, the horror of the situation stomping around inside him. “Mom,” he shouted. “Knock it off. You’re freaking me out.”
She held up her hands. “Just a suggestion.”
He gritted his teeth, and the pressure nearly snapped his jaw. “Go. Get. The. Wine.”
Before I murder my own mother.
Chapter Seventeen
“I’m going to walk my mom up to the house,” Peter said when Isabelle picked up the last pot to be dried.
“Good night, Mrs.—uh—Lorraine.”
Lorraine grinned her approval at the use of her given name. Isabelle couldn’t help forgetting to use it. The woman was formidable and deserved the respect.
“Good night, Isabelle. Thank you for inviting me.”
A flush of heat burned Isabelle’s cheeks and she smiled. She’d done the right thing by suggesting dinner together, and she suspected, in some way, she brightened a lonely woman’s evening.
Isabelle knew loneliness and Peter’s mother was smothered in it like manure at a horse track. Oh, she did a good job of putting on a cheery face, but Isabelle sensed a gaping hole in this woman’s armor. She knew about that too.
Lorraine put up her finger when Peter held his arm to her. “One last thing.” She stepped closer to Isabelle, her eyes unwavering. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about this business with your cousin. It’s just horrible.”
Finally, the elephant on Isabelle’s back had lumbered away. Lorraine, dressed in her fine beige slacks and matching silk blouse had done well pretending the Kendrick issue didn’t exist, but they all knew better. Still, her eyes were warm and nonjudgmental, and the sudden gush of relief left Isabelle stunned by its force.
“Thank you,” she said. “It is horrible. And I’m sorry Peter got caught up in it.”
Lorraine reached for her son’s arm. “That’s unfortunate, but you couldn’t have a better supporter.”
He grinned at her. “It’ll be all right. The cops took the security tapes from the gate. They’ll see what time I got home and they’ll clear us both.”
For a few seconds the room and everything in it, including Lorraine faded to a whitewashed background and Isabelle and Peter were alone. Just the two of them. Together. He wrapped his hand around the back of her head and stroked gently while a voice deep inside her whispered, Yes.
What’s that about?
“Well, I should go,” Lorraine said, breaking the spell and bringing the room back to focus.
Peter glanced at Isabelle. “Be right back.”
Walking his mother home. How wonderful. She would be perfectly safe walking five hundred yards on her own property, but he wanted to be sure. A good man.
With the dinner dishes cleaned up, Isabelle flopped onto the sofa and stretched into the wide cushions—not too overstuffed—just enough for a weary body to sink into.
How they all enjoyed a meal after Mrs. Jessup—Lorraine—found them half naked proved a mystery. Of course, it didn’t hurt that everyone had their rightful clothes on. A giggle bubbled inside, an odd sensation of mischievous joy she’d never felt as a teenager.
Isabelle flipped to her stomach and inhaled the clean scent of the soft cotton. She closed her eyes.
She liked Peter’s mother.
She liked how the woman wore silk blouses and dress slacks for a simple dinner with her son. She liked how easily Lorraine recovered from awkward situations and the obvious affection she held for Peter, even if he didn’t always see it.
Yes, Lorraine Jessup was a living, breathing powerhouse.
How nice it would have been to grow up with a mother like that? One that would support her child during the ugly stuff. Mrs. Jessup had her issues, but the woman, regardless of the situation, would defend her family.
Isabelle sighed a little, the soft fabric abrading her cheek, just a gentle massage to help relieve the stress. Sleep. Right here. Her body begged for it.
A few minutes later, her mind and body drifting, she heard the door open and stuck her arm out to wave. She didn’t quite make the wave. It was more of a hand flop.
“Are you a sleepy girl?” Peter laughed softly and trailed his fingers over her head before scooping up her feet and planting himself under them.
“Probably the wine.” She rolled over so she could see him.
“What a crazy night,” he said. “A real bohica.”
“Bohica?”
“Bend over, here it comes again.”
She snorted. “My life seems to be a series of bohicas lately.”
He skimmed his fingers up her leg and she glanced at him, their eyes connecting for a second, sparking that same frenetic intensity between them. Here we go again. He made a move toward her, but shoving her bare foot against his chest stopped him cold. She wanted some answers before they got into another make-out session.
Over dinner, Lorraine had casually mentioned someone kept knocking over the bush in front of the house. She knew this because half the dirt was missing from the pot. During the conversation, Peter had grown quiet and Isabelle’s mind wandered back to the day he admitted his hatred of the bush.
“What’s up with you and the fiddle leaf fig?”
Shit. Peter let his face settle into his best I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about look. “What?”
She nudged him with her foot. Well, maybe it was more like a kick. He rested his head against the cushion, staring at the ceiling.
“Spill it. I know it’s you knocking over that bush. I just can’t figure out why.”
Caught. Like a bear in a trap. He could blurt it out, no problem. He’d never been embarrassed to voice his thoughts, but this was different. Before now he never thought his head was fucked.
Then she aimed those Caribbean green lasers at him. “Oh, jeez.”
When she dug her heel into the crotch of his thin—extremely thin—basketball shorts, his eyes crossed.
Yow.
With extreme care, he lifted her foot off his parts and started breathing again. “You don’t have to get mean about it.”
“Clearly, I do.”
The echo of his thumping heartbeat rattled in his head as
her eyes drilled into him. Waiting. Damn. The quiet of the house folded in and his body stiffened. He had to say something. Something she’d believe, but he wouldn’t lie. Not to her.
He should just tell her. With all her demons, she’d understand.
“I keep thinking someone is hiding behind it.” He inched closer to watch for any sign of ridicule about to come his way. Nothing. Only a slight puckering of her lips.
“As in someone trying to do harm to your family?”
“Yes.”
She nodded, but made no other attempt to comfort him. Good, because he didn’t want to be poor-babied. All he needed was to get on his game and back to work.
“You told me about Roy,” she said. “Was his killer hiding behind something?”
“No.” He let out a sarcastic laugh. “I went crazy in a different way on that one.”
“How so?”
More questions. He shifted his eyes to her, then away again. Maybe if he stayed quiet she’d take the hint and leave him alone.
“Peter, what happened to you over there? Let me help you.”
That plan failed. She wanted to help. And why not? Somebody had to because, according to his friends, he was cracking up. He slouched into the sofa, misery caving his head in.
“I couldn’t sleep after Roy died. Well, I could sleep, but the nightmares were brutal, so I stayed awake.”
Her perfect eyebrows shot up on that one. “For how long?”
“Four days.” Take that, baby.
“Wow.”
“Yep. Then Billy, he’s one of the guys on my team. A real smart-ass. He started cracking jokes about me not sleeping. I went nuts and beat the hell out of him, which I now feel bad about, but he’s a prototypical pain in the ass. It was nothing unusual for him to mouth off and I couldn’t take it anymore. Before I knew it, word had gotten back to Vic and he put me on a plane home.”
“He convinced you to come home?”
“Hell no. He told me he had another assignment for me, and I was damned glad because I didn’t want to take a chance on killing Billy. The minute I got back to Chicago Vic put me on R&R.”
Isabelle nodded. “Okay. No potted plant issues on that one. How did Tiny die?”
Bingo. We have a winner.
“He got shot.”
“Was the shooter hiding behind a potted plant?”
He shook his head. “A crate of cereal boxes.”
She rocked forward, smacked him on the leg a few times. “There you go. You’re not crazy. You’ve lost two good friends in less than a year. You’re exhausted because you’ve been working yourself into the ground trying to forget about Tiny and—bam!—Roy dies. It’s not rocket science. You’re grieving. In case you’re not familiar with it, it’s something we mortals do.”
Another smart-ass. Flipping her off, as he’d done his brother, didn’t seem appropriate. He reached over and pinched her thigh just below the hem of her shorts. Not hard, but enough for her to know she’d hit a nerve. “Okay,” he said. “Fine. I’m not crazy, but that plant is driving me batshit.”
She shrugged. “Ask your mother to move it until you get beyond this initial stage of anxiety.”
“Oh, Lord. No way. No way.”
She slid over, snuggled in beside him, pulled his do-rag off and trailed her hand through his hair. “You can’t escape this. You’ve been trying for the better part of a year now and it’s catching up. You need to let yourself experience the pain so you can get past it.”
A blood rush seized him. He didn’t want to talk about this. Not now, not ever. He could escape it. He could. He just had to try harder.
He patted her leg. “Hey, we never did get that rumba lesson in.”
She didn’t move.
Shit.
He shook his head, huffed a breath. “I hear what you’re saying. And it makes sense. I don’t know how to give in to it.”
“News flash, Peter. No one does. You just have to let it be. When you’re pissed be pissed, don’t try to push it away. When you’re hurt, be hurt. Trust me, you cannot play hide and seek with your emotions. Just ask Creepy Izzy. You will fail miserably.”
She knew.
Maybe in a different way, but she understood running away wouldn’t work.
Besides that, unbeknownst to her, she’d started helping him the second his horny ass landed on that elevator with her. The nightmares didn’t happen as often. Now he dreamed of her and his list of sexual fantasies continued to grow at an alarming rate.
Plus, when they spent time together, he didn’t feel so useless.
“Thank you,” he said.
She cocked her head and twirled his hair around her finger. “You’ll get there if you give yourself a chance. Talk to your mother about the plant. She adores you. She’ll move it.”
He turned sideways, brushed his hand down her bare arm. The faded strawberry tank top she wore had some miles on it. He laughed. Izzy, outside of her top-notch lawyer clothes, sometimes dressed like a homeless person. They could look homeless together.
“My mother likes you,” he said.
Izzy grabbed his roaming hand and entwined her fingers with his. “You’re changing the subject.”
He grinned. “Yep.”
The lecture would begin at any minute. One, two, three seconds and…nothing. She leaned forward, her breast rubbing against his arm, and brushed her lips against his. The hair on his arm tingled and old one-eye woke from his slumber.
She moved closer, and smoothed her hand down the front of his T-shirt. “Hmm,” she said, still moving that hand up and down, up and down and—oh baby—his thoughts were definitely going south.
“Izzy?”
Her lips parted and—oh, man—he wanted to feast on them.
“Yes?” she said.
“I’d really like to fuck your brains out.”
Chapter Eighteen
In Peter’s opinion, her deep belly laugh could have been the sun peeking out on a gloomy winter day. Heaven. And he hadn’t experienced much heaven lately.
She straddled him and dragged her thumb over the scar near his mouth. “You’re the one who’s insisting on waiting for Fun Izzy.”
“I had her for a while.” These small hills of emotional and physical progress kept him from going insane.
“Yes, you did. It’s getting better, don’t you think?”
She continued to rub her thumb over his cheek and Monk Junior came awake. Jeez. This woman would kill him yet. And, unless she’d lost all feeling in her lower body, she couldn’t miss the hard-on.
“Oh, my,” she said.
Nope. Her lower body was just fine. In all aspects.
“Uh, better how?” Peter asked, trying to get back to her question.
Or, they could do it her way and she could nibble at his neck. Oh, man. Totally frickin’ haywire.
“It took Creepy Izzy a while to catch up,” she said, while his thoughts played demolition derby in his head. “Usually it happens right away.”
Her gaze settled on the scar. He should tell her and dissolve her curiosity. Everyone imagined he’d gotten the scar in some war-torn country. Sorry to disappoint, folks. “The coffee table.”
She bolted to spine-stiffening attention, the pressure causing a riot with Monk Junior who wanted to be released for pillaging.
“Excuse me?”
“The scar on my cheek. I was ten. Stephen and I were fighting and I crashed into the edge of a marble coffee table. That’s why it’s L shaped. Needed ten stitches.”
Leaning forward, she grazed her lips across the scar and his body hit overdrive again. Searing heat scalded him, but something else, maybe the quiet tenderness in her kiss left him wanting this every night. With her.
“I’ve been wondering,” she said, rolling her hips into him.
Unfortunately for him, Fun Izzy had already left the building. The inflection in her voice clued him in. Fun Izzy had a silly way of being sexy where Creepy Izzy turned into a purring seductress.
&nb
sp; But, what the hell, he kissed her. Even held her head in place while his tongue explored her mouth. She didn’t seem to mind so much.
If he had to endure the torture of not being able to ram his aching body into her, he might as well get some enjoyment, and kissing Izzy would never be a bad thing.
He backed away, stared into those sparking green eyes and the internal battle began.
Creepy Izzy wanted him.
His body wanted her, but the rational part of him, the part that knew she didn’t trust men to be anything more than sex-seeking pigs, told him to back the fuck off.
Any sane man would give in to the obvious talents of Creepy Izzy. Not that Peter was sane right now, but he knew enough that he couldn’t settle for less than all of her. He wanted her body, mind and heart. Every inch.
“What’s the problem?” she asked, sliding her hand under his shirt.
She knew the damn problem. “I want the entire Creepy Izzy-Fun Izzy package. The whole you, rather than this compartmentalized version, would be worth the wait for both of us. You’re not there yet.”
Her shoulders didn’t sag, they plummeted. Too bad Monk Junior didn’t go with them. Nope. That bad boy was still on the prowl.
“I’m sorry.”
He kissed the tip of her nose. “Yeah, me too. We’ll get there. Just not tonight.”
“I’m afraid you’ll run out of patience.”
Oh, hell, he’d gone way beyond being out of patience.
At six-thirty Thursday morning, Peter pulled into Izzy’s driveway, parked and retrieved his board from the cargo area of the Explorer. According to the charts, high tide would be in soon.
He hefted the board and hauled ass to the back of the house. Izzy was probably awake by now—she liked to get up early and work out—but he needed the water and would catch her before she left for work.
To his surprise, he found her sitting on the deck wrapped in a blanket, fighting the morning chill while the ocean breeze smacked against her sleep-rumpled hair. Damn, she looked cute curled up in that lounge chair. His body’s radar went beepbeepbeepbeepbeep.
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