Like No One Else

by Maureen Smith

  Her attraction to Paulo Sanchez, on the other hand, was not.

  From the kitchen, Tommie watched as he slowly wandered around the loft before ending up at the wall of windows that offered a scenic view of downtown Houston. Her gaze was drawn to the way his black jeans clung to his powerful thighs and hugged his firm, muscled butt. When her mouth began watering, she knew it had nothing to do with the fragrant aroma of lasagna wafting from the microwave.

  Paulo whistled softly through his teeth. “Great view.”

  You can say that again!

  Aloud Tommie said, “I’m certainly enjoying it.” As Paulo turned, she quickly schooled her features into a blank mask. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Sure. What’re you offering?”

  Tommie pulled open the stainless-steel Sub-Zero refrigerator and peered inside. “I have bottled water, mineral water, skim milk, orange juice, pineapple juice, and an unopened bottle of merlot. Sorry—no beer.”

  Paulo chuckled, starting across the room toward her. “The pineapple stuff sounds good.”

  Tommie vaguely remembered him having only one or two drinks at the wedding reception, while most of the other single guys had downed beers as if alcohol were going out of style. Throughout the evening several of those men had hit on her, obviously operating under the misguided assumption that her status as a bridesmaid meant she was desperate enough to go home with any half-drunk loser who propositioned her. It was sadly ironic that the only man she’d wanted to sleep with that night had left with someone else.

  Shoving aside the memory, Tommie arched a brow at Paulo as she filled two glasses with pineapple juice. “Not much of a drinker, are you?”

  “Not anymore.”

  Something about his cryptic response piqued Tommie’s curiosity, but she didn’t want to pry by asking him to elaborate. Besides, the less she knew about Paulo Sanchez, the easier it would be to keep him at arm’s length.

  Or so she told herself.

  The microwave beeped, signaling that the lasagna had finished heating. As Tommie fixed their plates, Paulo made his way over to the long breakfast counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. He removed his leather jacket and draped it over the back of a bar stool. He wore a black T-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders and showcased his muscular forearms. The butt of a gun was visible from his shoulder holster.

  “Do you make a habit of skipping lunch, Detective?” Tommie inquired as she set their steaming plates on the countertop, then rounded the corner to claim one of the high-backed bar stools.

  “If I’m swamped with cases,” Paulo answered as he sat down beside her, “food isn’t always a top priority.”

  “I can understand that,” Tommie conceded. “On my busiest days, I don’t even think about eating until my last class is over, which isn’t until eight on Tuesday and Thursday evenings.”

  Paulo slanted her a wry smile. “Is that why Mrs. Calhoun prepares meals for you? To make sure you don’t starve yourself to death?”

  Tommie nodded, chuckling ruefully. “She loves to fuss and fret over me. She can’t help herself. She raised four children and has nine grandchildren. Nurturing is second nature to her. But I’m not complaining. I’ve hardly had to cook since I hired her, and quite frankly, she’s much better at it than I’ve ever been.” She watched as Paulo sampled a forkful of lasagna. “How is it?”

  “Incredible,” he said, sounding mildly surprised. “Probably the best lasagna I’ve ever had.”

  “Oh God,” Tommie groaned. “Please don’t tell Mrs. Calhoun that. You already had her eating out of the palm of your hand after you complimented her piano playing. If you tell her she makes the best lasagna you’ve ever had, she’ll think you walk on water.”

  Paulo’s straight white teeth flashed in a grin. “Now, now. Don’t be jealous.”

  Tommie rolled her eyes. “In your dreams, Sanchez.”

  He chuckled, taking another bite of lasagna. “So, how are you enjoying Houston so far?”

  “I love it,” Tommie said sincerely. “I’ve got this fabulous loft, my own dance studio. I’m close to the downtown theater district, and I’ve made a lot of friends at the Houston Met.”

  “The dance company?”

  Tommie nodded. “I’ve already been to several performances there. I never realized Houston had such a thriving arts scene. I feel right at home.”

  Paulo cocked a brow at her. “You’re telling me you don’t miss the hustle and bustle of New York, the city that never sleeps?”

  “A little,” Tommie admitted quietly. “There’s no place on earth like New York City. But Texas is, and always will be, my home.”

  “Is that why you left the Big Apple?” Paulo murmured, studying her with those dark, probing eyes that saw way too much. “Because you were homesick?”

  Tommie lifted one shoulder and averted her gaze, becoming absorbed in her meal, even as she felt her appetite waning. She didn’t want to think about, let alone discuss, the devastating scandal that had derailed her professional dancing career seven months ago. She’d never told anyone what had happened in New York. As close as she and her older sister had become in recent years, not even Frankie knew Tommie’s shameful secret. She certainly wasn’t about to bare her soul to Paulo Sanchez, a man who was, for all intents and purposes, a stranger to her.

  Deciding to turn the tables on him, Tommie ventured casually, “What about you? What made you decide to leave San Antonio?”

  Paulo shrugged, returning his attention to his food. “I wanted a change of scenery.”

  Tommie’s eyes narrowed on his face. Just as before, she sensed that there was a story behind his vague response, and once again, her curiosity was aroused. But the sudden tension in Paulo’s broad shoulders and the hardening of his jaw warned her to back off.

  So I’m not the only one with secrets.

  Oddly comforted by the thought, Tommie said conversationally, “I guess moving to Houston wasn’t such a stretch for you. Frankie told me you have family here.”

  Paulo nodded. “I used to visit them every summer when I was growing up. My cousin Rafe and I were thick as thieves.”

  Tommie smiled whimsically. “Interesting analogy, considering you both grew up to become law enforcement officers. Guess you both decided it was nobler to play cops than robbers.”

  Paulo smiled a little. “Never looked at it that way. Rafe always wanted to be an FBI agent. Me? I had a hard enough time just staying out of trouble.”

  Tommie widened her eyes in exaggerated disbelief. “You? Getting into trouble? No way!”

  Paulo chuckled. “Good thing I’m a changed man.”

  Tommie snorted rudely. “Yeah, right.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She gave him a knowing look. “Need I remind you of the compromising position I caught you in at my sister’s wedding, of all places?”

  “Oh. That.” His mouth curved in a wolfish grin. “What can I say? Some people cry at weddings. I prefer to get laid.”

  Tommie sputtered indignantly, “Sebastien is one of your best friends! You were a groomsman! Couldn’t you at least have waited until after the reception before you tended to your libido?”

  Paulo’s grin widened. “Obviously not.”

  Tommie shook her head in disgust. “Pig.”

  He threw back his head and laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that did dangerous things to her heart rate. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, wishing for the umpteenth time that he didn’t have such a powerful effect on her. He was sexy as hell with his leather jacket, butt-hugging jeans, cocky swagger, and wickedly irreverent attitude. A man like Paulo Sanchez could only bring Tommie heartache, and that was the last thing she needed or wanted in her life.

  Paulo draped his arm over the back of her stool and leaned close, his brown eyes glinting with mischief. “Come now, Tomasina,” he murmured, his voice a low, silky caress. “Are you objecting to what you caught me doing at your sister’s wed
ding, or the fact that I wasn’t doing it with you?”

  Tommie stared at him, heat suffusing her cheeks. He knew. The arrogant bastard knew that she’d wanted him that day. He knew how humiliated she’d felt when she stumbled upon him with another woman.

  Angrily she jerked her gaze away and snapped, “Don’t call me Tomasina.”

  Paulo chuckled, a satisfied gleam in his eyes as he drew back from her. “My apologies,” he drawled. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with Mrs. Calhoun calling you Tomasina.”

  She frowned. “That’s different.”

  “How so?”

  “Mrs. Calhoun is old school. She doesn’t like nicknames, especially masculine-sounding nicknames for females. And she reminds me a lot of my favorite grandmother, who passed away when I was seventeen.” Tommie shrugged, idly picking at her lasagna. “As far as I’m concerned, Mrs. Calhoun can call me whatever she wants. You, on the other hand, enjoy no such privilege.”

  Paulo feigned a wounded look. “That really hurts my feelings.”

  Tommie couldn’t help laughing. “You are so full of it! Which reminds me, you never did answer my question. What are you doing here?”

  He shrugged. “I came to see how you were doing. I wanted to see if you were settling in okay.”

  “Just out of the clear blue?” Tommie’s voice was heavy with skepticism. “I’ve been in Houston for seven months, Paulo. Why did you suddenly decide—” She broke off, her eyes narrowing suspiciously on his face. “Wait a minute. Did my sister ask you to check up on me?”

  “No.”

  “Liar!”

  “What?”

  “I know the only reason you’re here is that Frankie asked—no, begged—you to stop by.”

  Paulo scowled. “First of all, no one begged me to do anything. And even if Frankie did ask me to check up on you, what would be so terrible about that? She’s your big sister, she’s supposed to worry about you.”

  Tommie pounced. “I knew it! You did talk to her!” Incensed, she shot out of her chair, snatched her plate of half-eaten lasagna off the counter, and stalked over to the kitchen sink.

  Behind her, Paulo said evenly, “I don’t understand why you’re so upset about—”

  Tommie whirled around. “Ever since I left New York, Frankie and my parents have been nagging me about moving back home. Every time I talk to one of them on the phone, it’s the same thing. ‘Why do you want to live in Houston, Tommie?’ ‘Wouldn’t you rather be close to all your family and friends, Tommie?’” She shook her head in angry exasperation. “I know they mean well, but I don’t appreciate being treated like some teenage runaway who can’t handle the responsibility of being on my own. I’m thirty-three years old, damn it. I think I’ve already proved that I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  When she’d ended her tirade, Paulo said nothing, staring at her with an unreadable expression. The longer he remained silent, the more Tommie wanted to kick herself for letting her emotions get the better of her. If she had been romantically interested in Paulo, bitching about her problems—when they hardly even knew each other—would have been a surefire way to send him running for the hills. Experience had taught her that nothing drove a man away faster than a woman with too much baggage.

  Turning away, she busied herself with scraping the remnants of her lasagna off her plate and down the drain. With the faucet running and the garbage disposal grinding noisily, she didn’t hear Paulo approaching until he appeared beside her at the counter, placing his empty plate into the sink. Tommie tensed as he reached over, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger and gently turning her head, forcing her to meet his dark, intent gaze.

  “You may be thirty-three years old, querida,” he murmured, “but you still have a lot of growing up to do.” Before Tommie could open her mouth to protest, he laid a finger against her lips and shook his head slowly. “Just hear me out.”

  Tommie glared mutinously at him.

  “I come from a big family,” Paulo continued. “I have four siblings and more aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, and nephews than I can count. One thing I’ve learned over the years is that no matter what may have happened in the past or what you may accomplish in life, there’s nothing more important than family. Nothing. The next time your sister or your parents ask you about moving back home, don’t automatically assume they’re trying to keep a leash on you. Consider the possibility that they need you as much as you need them.” He paused, a hint of irony touching his mouth. “And if you think you don’t need them, think again.”

  Tommie gazed at him, his words striking a chord deep within her. Her relationship with her family had been complicated for as long as she could remember, and as much as she liked to believe she’d worked through all her issues during the four years she’d been away from home, she knew she still had a ways to go. Her outburst of a few minutes ago was proof of that.

  Suddenly aware of Paulo’s finger still resting against her lips, Tommie jerked her head back. “Thanks for the psychoanalysis, Dr. Sanchez,” she quipped with an aloofness she didn’t feel. “Be sure to send me your bill.”

  Paulo gave her a small, knowing smile that told her he saw right through her act. As she watched, he reached out and lightly trailed a fingertip down her cheek. Her flesh tingled. Her pulse quickened.

  Striving to ignore her body’s reaction to his touch, she glared at him. “You really have a problem keeping your hands to yourself, don’t you, Detective?” she demanded. But her voice was too breathless, too husky with awareness to convincingly deliver the reprimand.

  Paulo’s gaze darkened. He shifted closer, subtly trapping her between the counter and his body.

  Her heart thudded. She found herself staring at the sensual curve of his lips and wondering, not for the first time, how they would feel against hers, how they would taste.

  As Paulo slowly lowered his dark head toward hers, her lips parted.

  A cell phone jangled loudly, startling them both.

  Frowning at the interruption, Paulo dug the phone out of his back pocket and flipped it open. “Sanchez.”

  Turning away, Tommie inhaled a shaky breath, thinking of how dangerously close she had come to letting Paulo kiss her.

  Letting? her conscience mocked. You were practically begging him to kiss you!

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Paulo’s expression turn grim as he listened into the phone. “I’ll be right there,” he muttered before snapping it shut and shoving it back into his pocket.

  Tommie arched a brow. “Duty calls?”

  “Yeah.” There was a trace of regret in his voice. He held her gaze for a long moment, then turned away.

  She watched as he strode around the breakfast counter to retrieve his leather jacket from the back of the bar stool he’d been sitting on. “Well, thanks for stopping by,” she said briskly. “As you can see I’m just fine, so you don’t have to check up on me anymore.”

  Paulo sent her a wry look as he shrugged into his jacket. “Is that your not-so-subtle way of telling me never to darken your doorstep again?”

  Tommie couldn’t help grinning. “You said it, not me.” Grabbing her keys off the countertop, she said, “I’ll walk you downstairs. I have to lock up the building anyway.”

  As she followed him down the old stairwell, their footsteps echoed hollowly in the enclosed space, bouncing off the bare brick walls and bounding up to the skylight roof. During the daytime the stairway was flooded with natural light and warmth. At night it seemed cold and cavernous, dimly illuminated with recessed lighting that needed replacing. Getting her dance studio finished had ranked higher on Tommie’s list of priorities than having a well-lit stairwell.

  As if he’d intercepted her thoughts, Paulo, frowning at the ceiling, advised, “You should probably get those bulbs replaced soon.”

  “I know. It’s a wiring issue, so I have to call an electrician. It’s on my to-do list, along with installing a locker room for my students and getting the
intercom system fixed.”

  Paulo nodded. “I’m surprised this entire building wasn’t converted into lofts. Those are really popular in this area.”

  “That’s what the previous owner intended to do when he first bought the warehouse. He wanted to divide it into four cozy lofts. He only got as far as completing the first unit before he ran into some zoning issues and abandoned the project altogether. Once the housing market crashed, the building’s odd location—not quite in the theater or warehouse district—made it difficult for him to resell without taking a huge profit loss.” Which he eventually did anyway when he sold the property to Tommie way below market value.

  “I guess you came along at the right time,” Paulo observed.

  “Most definitely,” Tommie agreed. “This building was a steal. I was able to kill two birds with one stone—I found a place to live and a place for my business.”

  “What’s the square footage?”

  “Five thousand. A bit small by warehouse standards, but more than enough to suit my needs. I would have killed for this kind of space back in New York.”

  They had reached the landing. To their right, the studio sat dark and empty.

  As Tommie followed Paulo to the main door, she said, “Seriously, though. The next time my sister asks you to check up on me, feel free to let her know you’re a busy detective with better things to do with your time than babysitting grown women.”

  Paulo stopped at the door and turned back to her. “The only problem with that,” he murmured, his eyes roaming across her face, “is that your sister never asked me to check up on you.” He paused for a moment, letting that sink in before adding, “Thanks for dinner. I’ll be seeing you around.”

  Tommie locked the door behind him and leaned against it, her pulse drumming as his parting words echoed through her mind. I’ll be seeing you around.