Just One Look

by Mary McBride

  And then she remembered the stash of little square packets her former fiancé had left behind in the bathroom drawer when he’d walked out of her life. But that had been over a year ago. Maybe they were expired. Or weird. Or the wrong size. Did they come in sizes? Was it rude to offer one man another man’s condoms?

  Her brain, already spinning from Joe’s kisses, felt as if it were short-circuiting. She stared at him, blinking stupidly:

  “I’ve got an idea,” Joe said.

  Oh, good! “What?” she asked hopefully.

  He reached for the limp sash of her robe, looped the ends and tied a neat little bow at her waist. “Let’s order a pizza.”

  Maybe at one time in his life he’d proclaimed that Dominick’s triple cheese pizza was the next best thing to sex. Yeah. He probably had said that, but it had been when he was married and there actually were next best things to sex. Tonight, though, the pizza was a ploy, a way to buy time, a means to recover his control.

  He paid the delivery kid, locked the front door and took the big flat box into the kitchen where Sara, dressed in something long and soft and black, was fixing a salad. Her color was still high. Joe attributed it to his kisses rather than the bitter cold outside.

  “Dominick’s,” she said, spying the box. “I’ve never had their pizza.”

  “Next best thing to sex,” Joe said, earning himself a withering glance while he planted himself at the island and flipped open the box. “Well, maybe not. But it’s pretty good.”

  She served him a healthy portion of the salad. “Try it,” she said. “I think I managed to get the dressing right.”

  Joe forked up a combination of lettuce, artichoke hearts and red onion, then chewed with his eyes closed.

  “Well?” Sara asked.

  “Almost.”

  “Almost? What did I do wrong?”

  “You forgot the lemon juice.”

  “You didn’t tell me about the lemon juice, Decker,” she said without bothering to hide her exasperation.

  “Didn’t I?” He grinned. “Hey, I can’t divulge all my secrets. I mean, we’ve only known each other two weeks.”

  “Lemon juice,” she muttered. “So, what else are you holding out on me, hm? Oregano? Garlic?”

  “Not this.” He handed Sara a gooey triangle of the pizza, then tried not to watch her lips and her tongue as they sensuously tackled the melted strings of mozzarella and the thin circles of pepperoni. He sighed inaudibly. It was going to be a long night.

  “Why’d you come back?” she asked, licking a bit of tomato sauce from her finger. “Was there some news about the Ripper?”

  He shook his head. “No. No news. I just don’t think he’s flown the coop. Anyway, I guess I got used to guarding your body.”

  “It’s a pretty quiet job.” She shrugged, smiling a little wistfully. “All indoors. No traveling. No socializing to speak of.”

  “Great benefits, though.” He took another bite of pizza, letting his eyes roll back in his head while he chewed.

  Sara sighed as she dropped a piece of uneaten crust in the box. “What I’m getting at, Decker...”

  “I know what you’re getting at, Campbell,” he said, interrupting her with a stern, upraised hand, almost like a traffic cop. All he needed was a whistle to really get her attention. “It’s not going to work, you know.”

  “What?”

  “You’re warning me off. Right? Trying to stiff-arm me the way you did this morning.”

  “No,” she protested, then frowned and added a qualifying, “well...”

  “Yeah. You are.” He narrowed his gaze. “And I’m telling you right now it’s not going to work.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I’ve fallen for you. Hook, line and sinker.” He snagged his mouth with his index finger, doing what he thought was a pretty good impression of a surrendering marlin, trying his best to make her laugh.

  She did, but only for a moment. Then caution once again replaced the merriment in her eyes. “We’re very different, Joe. Or haven’t you noticed?”

  “Oh, I’ve noticed.” He let his gaze wander salaciously to her mouth, to her breasts, back to her mouth. She’d taste like pizza if he kissed her. Warm. Spicy. “Vive la différence, as they say.”

  “That isn’t what I meant.”

  “You mean because I don’t get all bent out of shape about the unknown, and you do.”

  “Well, yes,” she said. “That’s one way of putting it, I guess. Or how about your ability to go out and meet the world head-on while I just cower here behind closed doors.”

  “Cower? You’re cowering?” he asked teasingly. “Right now?”

  She glared at him, strangling a little growl deep in her throat. “Will you please be serious,” she demanded.

  “I am serious, babe.” He closed the pizza box, nudged it aside, then reached out for both of her hands. Clammy. Trembling slightly.

  He wished right then he could just tuck her in his pocket and keep her warm and protected the rest of her life. He wanted to tell her that his life was composed of risk enough for the two of them and that if she never left home again, he wouldn’t care because that meant she’d always be there for him. He wanted to let her know that he was sure she’d improve once she realized how much he loved her, how totally she could depend on him to keep her safe, to protect her from whatever demons she imagined were out there in the big bad world.

  He wanted to say all that and more, but risk-taker that he was on the job, he was a coward now. Maybe it was too soon for such heartrending, gut-wrenching declarations. What if she didn’t want his protection? What if she pulled away?

  “I’m here for as long as you want me,” he said. “Ripper or no Ripper.”

  The tension eased somewhat in her face, and her hands slipped deeper into his grasp. “I want you here for a long, long time,” she said softly.

  Apparently Joe meant what he said about staying because, once the pizza box was empty, he convinced Sara to accompany him to his place for some clothes and other necessities.

  It was still a pit.

  “Why do I feel as if I’m rescuing a homeless man?” she asked only half in jest as she gazed around the wreckage of the living room.

  “Probably because you are,” Joe called from the bedroom. He appeared in the doorway, a yellow plastic laundry basket in his hands. “Not a moment too soon, either. I’m out of clean clothes.”

  “No problem. We can do them at my place.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “We?”

  “Well, I’ll be glad you show you where the washer and dryer are, then you’re on your own.” She laughed. “No need setting any precedents.”

  While he gathered up a few more things, Sara began to regret her statement. She couldn’t imagine anything nicer, really, than doing Joe’s laundry. She glanced at the yellow basket, wondering if the bright scraps of fabric she saw were skivvies, imagining how they’d look on Joe’s trim body. Anybody who looked that good in jeans would certainly look even better out of them.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Sara nodded a bit guiltily, considering her thoughts and the warm rush of desire they inspired. She was ready, all right. Boy, was she ready!

  Once they were back home, she slipped into pale pink satin, intent on driving Decker crazy if nothing else. She propped herself among the pillows on her bed, rearranged the covers and the pillows and herself at least half a dozen times, got up, brushed her hair, got back in bed, then waited. And waited.

  From downstairs came the faint, rhythmic hum of the washing machine, followed by the sound of the dryer. Finally, she thought, settling her shoulders a bit deeper into the pillows, encouraging one thin strap of her nightgown to slip down her arm, listening for footsteps on the stairs.

  What she heard, though, was the washer starting up again. Ka-chunga. Ka-chunga.

  Ka-whoosh.

  “Rats,” she muttered, abandoning her alluring pose and reaching for the TV remote on the nightstand
. She punched her way through sixty-eight channels twice without finding a single thing to watch except the local news, so she turned the volume down and stared blankly at the snowflakes that dotted the weather map, hoping she didn’t drift off to sleep before the Lunatic Laundryman finally called it quits and decided to wander up the stairs.

  Joe checked the doors and windows before he went upstairs. He’d left his clothes neatly folded in the little laundry room, not knowing where to stash them. This moving-in business had been a pretty impulsive deal, and they hadn’t gotten around to discussing sleeping arrangements. As much as he wanted to sleep with Sara, he’d already decided that, for the time being anyway, he’d better take the bedroom across the hall from hers. There was still the Ripper to consider, not to mention that pesky little problem of protection.

  Not trusting the little stash of packets in Sara’s bathroom drawer, he’d been tempted earlier to stop at a drug store somewhere between his place and hers, then decided he’d simply have to tough it out until there was no threat to interfere with their pleasure the first time they made love. The last thing he wanted was for the damn Ripper to catch him with his pants down.

  By God, that was one son of a bitch he’d be happy to see in the slammer. Forget that he had brutally murdered eight women. The guy was ruining Joe’s sex life, now that he finally had one again.

  He paused on the stairs, listening to the night sounds of the big, locked-down house, from the deep snoring of the furnace in the basement to the drone of a newscaster’s voice somewhere in the vicinity of Sara’s room. He realized suddenly that he was hoping she’d be asleep, allowing him to just sling himself out in a nearby bedroom rather than have to confront his desire for her all over again when there wasn’t anything he could do about it. The mere thought of that inviting bed of hers was enough to give him a headache as he climbed the rest of the stairs.

  “Joe?” she called softly.

  Damn. He stuck his head into her room, lit only by the glow of the television screen. There she was, right where he knew she’d be, looking all pale and pink, like a little rosebud wrapped in tissue and washed by moonlight. He swallowed hard, not daring to take another step across the threshold. “I think I’ll just crash in the room across the hall, if that’s okay with you.”

  He could tell from the slope of her mouth that it wasn’t okay. Already he’d learned to read her like a favorite book or fairy tale. “The Princess and the Pea” came to mind. Or “Sleeping Beauty.” Some prince he was, he thought. It wasn’t the right time to make love, but the least he could do was kiss her good-night.

  “If you behave yourself,” he said, stepping into the room, “I’ll tuck you in.”

  She smiled and slid a fallen satin strap onto her shoulder. “I promise. I’ve never been much of a temptress, anyway.”

  “Oh, you’re tempting.” He sat, edging a hip onto the mattress beside her. His gaze flickered toward the television across the room. “My boss had a press conference this afternoon. Have they shown any of it? I could use a few langhs.”

  “Not yet.” She pressed the remote to turn the volume up a notch. “The local stuff will be on right after the commercial. Tape at eleven, as they say.”

  “Keep it on, will you? I want to see how he manages to tap-dance around the Ripper this time.”

  “Sure.” She leaned against his shoulder. “Is your laundry all done?”

  “Yep. And I threw in a load of towels, too. How’s that for being domesticated?”

  “You’re going to be a pleasure to have around, Decker. You cook. You do laundry. What about windows?”

  “Those, too. Just give me a squeegee and I turn into a maniac.” He slapped the palm of his hand to his forehead. “Aw, hell. I forgot to check the windows in the kitchen.”

  “I haven’t opened any today. I’m sure they’re still locked.”

  “I better check them, anyway.” He stood up. “Be right back. Give a shout if they show a clip from the press conference, okay?”

  “I’ll do better than that.” She clicked a button on the remote. “I’ll record what’s left of the program for you.”

  “Good girl.”

  He kissed the top of her head, then left the room to trot downstairs. Who needed to work out at a gym when he had this museum-size staircase to keep him in shape? he wondered. He’d be glad when Sara dumped this white elephant and they could move into a little place of their own. Hell, he’d be more than happy to do windows if the inside view included Sara.

  Slowing his trot to a walk, he told his brain to slow down, too. Maybe his heart was beyond recall, but that didn’t mean he had to start making decisions that affected the rest of his life. There would be time for all that. Everything would fall naturally in place somehow after he brought down the Ripper, after Sara was no longer in danger. In the meantime, though, they would both be better off if he kept a clear and level head.

  Just as Sara had suspected, the windows in the kitchen were all soundly secured. After checking them, Joe poured himself a glass of milk and drank it standing at the sink. Even that was nice. For the past three years, he’d been knocking himself out each night, dulling his senses with a couple fingers of bourbon. Even so, the morning’s rumpled sheets were always proof of ragged, fitful sleep. What a mess he’d been. Until now.

  He finished off the glass, then licked his lips, feeling a little bit like a battered tomcat that had finally come in from the cold. Maybe he would just climb into that big bed with Sara, nudge up against her pink satin warmth and purr all night long. Just purr, though. Nothing else. He swore.

  Sara was still sitting up in bed when he entered her room. Her eyes were riveted on the TV screen, where Joe could see Frank Cobble holding court in a roomful of reporters.

  “Turn the sound up, will you?” he asked, sitting next to her on the bed.

  She didn’t press the volume button. In fact, she didn’t move while she continued to stare at the screen. Her eyes were huge, as if she were watching a horror . movie rather than the evening news.

  “Sara?”

  “That’s him,” she said.

  “I know. That’s why I wanted you to turn it up.” Joe eased the remote from her hand and pressed the button until he could hear the captain’s cigarette-roughened words. “Jerk,” he muttered at the sight of Frank’s neatly trimmed hair, custom suit and designer tie.

  “That’s him,” Sara said again.

  “My captain. Yeah. I told you he was—”

  She clutched his arm. Hard. Her voice was high and tight. Terrified. “No. No. That’s the face I saw under the ski mask, Joe. That’s the South Side Ripper.”

  Joe laughed. He couldn’t help it. The air rushed up from his chest and emerged as a distinct Ha at the mere thought of Fussy Frank in a dark ski mask, viciously gutting eight females.

  “I’m not making this up, Joe,” Sara insisted.

  “No. I know you’re not.” He tried to wipe what he knew was an irritating grin off his face. “But I think you’re confused. I mean, come on, Sara. That’s my boss.”

  She took her eyes off the TV screen to glare at him. “I don’t care if he’s Santa Claus, Decker. That’s the face I saw under the ski mask.”

  “Okay. Okay.” He glanced at Cobble, who was winding up the press conference, having said nothing of substance for the past few minutes. “So the guy was middle-aged. Thinning light brown hair. A narrow nose. He looked like the captain.”

  “He didn’t look like him,” she said. “It was him.”

  “That’s nuts!”

  She ripped the covers back and bounded off the bed. “Well, thank you very much, Lieutenant. You and your people have been hounding me for two weeks to come up with some kind of description of the Ripper. And now I’ve done better than a description.” She stabbed a finger toward the TV. “I’ve actually seen him again. Right there. And you don’t believe me. Now I’m just a nut again.”

  “Sara,” he said soothingly.

  “Don’t you ‘Sara’
me, bub. I know what I saw. I know who I saw. Him!”

  “That just doesn’t make any sense. It’s—”

  “Crazy?” Her fists lodged on her hips. “Go ahead. You can say it. I can see it in your eyes. They’re all slitty and suspicious.”

  If his eyes were all slitty, Joe thought it was probably due more to Sara’s thin satin gown than to anything else. Backlit by the TV the way she was, he could see just about everything underneath. The long, lithe shape of her legs. The sweet spot where they met. The jut of her hipbones just above. The soft indentation of her navel. He blinked to clear his vision as well as his head.

  “I didn’t say you were crazy,” he said. “You’re just wrong, that’s all. If Frank’s the Ripper, then I’m the tooth fairy. He’s a cop, Sara, for God’s sake.”

  “So? Does that mean he can’t also be a killer?”

  “Well, no, but...”

  She was stomping back and forth at the foot of the bed, waving her arms, chewing her lower lip. “And here’s another question for you. How come he’s never been by here personally to talk to his star witness?”

  “He was here,” Joe said. “He just stayed in his car.”

  “Uh-huh. I guess he didn’t want me to see him.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it?” She stopped, her eyes widening, her mouth falling open slightly. “Joe, that’s why the Ripper hasn’t done anything this past week, ever since the article in the paper. Your captain knew all along that it was a hoax. That I couldn’t identify him.”

  His eyes did get slitty and suspicious now. Not that he was even considering Frank as a suspect, but what Sara said made absolute sense. The Ripper should have done something. He should have made a move, some kind of move, on the witness who could put him away for life. It was inconceivable that he hadn’t. Unless... unless maybe he did know that Cormack was just stringing him along with that piece in the paper.

  “Maybe somebody tipped him off,” he said, still reluctant to admit it. “It’s possible, I guess.”

  “Possible,” Sara said with a snort. “Maybe he didn’t need to be tipped off. Maybe he knew from the beginning. Or when you told him what you’d done.”