Like No One Else

by Maureen Smith

  Tommie laughed. “So what? They’re men, aren’t they? Even nerds can appreciate a great pair of legs. You wear that outfit, and by the time you’re finished speaking, they’ll be lining up in droves to give you the research funds.”

  “I’d like to think the content of my presentation would be the reason for that,” Frankie said wryly.

  “Of course. But you know my motto—if you got it, ain’t a thing wrong with flaunting it.” She grinned, adding impishly, “Too bad you’re not breast-feeding anymore. Those milk jugs you had made me want to cut you a damned check.”

  “Tommie!” Frankie gasped.

  Tommie laughed. She’d always enjoyed scandalizing her older sister. It was so much fun.

  “Anyway,” Frankie intoned, pointedly changing the subject, “how are your classes going?”

  “Great,” Tommie replied. “I’ve got a full plate. I might need to hire another dance instructor sooner than I thought.”

  “That’s wonderful, Tommie,” Frankie said warmly. “You know, at the risk of getting all sentimental—”

  Tommie groaned.

  “—there’s nothing nobler than sharing your knowledge and experience with others. Teaching takes an incredible amount of passion, patience, and unselfishness, and not everyone can do it. I’m so proud of you for not only proving that you can do it, but for having the courage to try. I hope your students realize just how lucky they are to be learning from such an amazingly gifted and accomplished dancer.”

  Tommie’s throat constricted. “Damn it, Frankie,” she grumbled. “Do you always have to be so damned good to me?”

  “Yes,” Frankie said, a distinct smile in her voice, “because I love you. And no matter what we’ve been through, I couldn’t imagine my life without you.”

  “Ditto,” Tommie murmured, remembering the harrowing ordeal her sister had endured four years ago. Tommie wished it hadn’t taken a near tragedy to make her realize how much she’d been taking Frankie, and their relationship, for granted. But then, she’d always been one of those people who had to learn things the hard way.

  As Tommie took a swallow of wine and reached for the stack of mail she’d brought in earlier, she asked, “How’s Mama August? Still spoiling Marcos rotten?”

  Frankie chuckled. “You know it. But you won’t hear me complaining. That woman has been an absolute godsend. I honestly don’t know what we’d do without her. With my busy schedule and Sebastien’s long hours, having his grandmother here during the week to take care of Marcos has been such a blessing. Marcos adores her, and he really enjoys their trips to Rafe and Korrine’s ranch up the road. He gets to ride horses and play with Kaia and Ramon all day long. I tell you, between Mama August and Rafe’s godmother, all three of those rug rats are spoiled rotten.”

  Tommie smiled, absently sorting through her mail, most of it junk. “How is Korrine, by the way? Is she pregnant with her third child yet? Or has Rafe finally changed his mind about wanting six kids?”

  Frankie laughed. “If he hasn’t, I’m sure Korrine can persuade him to agree to a compromise. She’s got that man wrapped around her finger.”

  “Something else you both have in common. Besotted husbands.”

  “Besotted? Someone’s been watching Jane Austen movies again.”

  Tommie sniffed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Right. Of course. What was I thinking, implying that a cool, tough girl like you would actually watch those sappy romantic sagas?”

  When Tommie made no reply, Frankie chuckled knowingly. During a previous visit to Tommie’s loft, Frankie had been pleasantly surprised to find Pride and Prejudice among her sister’s DVD collection. She hadn’t believed Tommie when she told her that the movie belonged to a friend.

  “And speaking of Rafe,” Frankie said casually, “have you and his cousin bumped into each other yet?”

  “Why?” Tommie asked suspiciously. She’d nearly forgotten that the reason she’d called her sister was to pry the truth out of her concerning Paulo’s visit.

  “I was just wondering,” Frankie answered. “You and Paulo have lived in the same city for seven months now. I just figured you’d eventually run into each other.”

  Tommie wasn’t buying her sister’s explanation. “Houston is a big city. The odds of running into anyone you know are slim. Unless you’re neighbors or travel in the same social circles. Or unless you go out of your way to see each other.” She waited a beat. “Something you wanna tell me?”

  “What?” Frankie asked blankly.

  Tommie slapped the countertop. “I knew it!”

  “Knew what?”

  “You did tell Paulo to check up on me.”

  “What? I did no such thing!”

  “Frankie,” Tommie growled in warning.

  Frankie laughed. “I didn’t tell him anything, I swear!” She paused as comprehension dawned. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that Paulo came by to see you?”

  “Yes. He just left not too long ago.” Tommie frowned. “I thought you’d put him up to it.”

  “Nope.” Frankie hesitated. “Not because I didn’t consider it, mind you. I did, to be perfectly honest with you. But I knew you’d be mad if you ever found out, so I kept my mouth shut. Looks like I didn’t need to say a word to him anyway. He found his way there all on his own.” She sounded inordinately pleased.

  “Don’t get any crazy ideas,” Tommie muttered. “There’s nothing going on between me and Paulo. Nothing whatsoever.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Tommie scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Frankie chuckled. “You may think I had my head in the clouds on my wedding day—which is partially true—but I wasn’t completely oblivious of everything but Sebastien. I saw the way you and Paulo were looking at each other during the ceremony and at the reception, even during the bridal party’s photo session. A lot of people noticed. It was clear that you and Paulo were very attracted to each other.”

  “So what?” Tommie retorted, tracing the rim of her glass with a manicured fingertip. “That doesn’t mean we should start dating. He’s not even my type.”

  Frankie snorted in disbelief. “Since when?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Since when is a guy like Paulo Sanchez not your type?” Frankie challenged. “You’ve always had a thing for bad boys. Paulo’s got that whole renegade thing going, right down to the surly grin and cocky swagger. And he’s sexy as hell. Seems to me he’s exactly your type.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Really?” Frankie’s voice was heavy with cynicism.

  Tommie bristled. “I know this may be hard for you to believe, but I’m not the same person who left home four years ago. I’ve done a lot of growing up, and my taste in men has evolved. I’m not denying that Paulo’s hot. I know he’d make an incredible one-night stand. But that’s about all he could do for me, and at this point in my life, I think I deserve more.”

  “Of course you do,” Frankie said softly. “I certainly didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”

  “I know. And I understand where you’re coming from. You’ve found your Mr. Right, and you want me to be as happy as you are. Believe me, I want the same thing, too, if it’s in the cards for me. But after all the bad decisions I’ve made concerning men, the last thing I need is to get involved with a guy who’s clearly wrong for me.”

  “Wow,” Frankie murmured.

  Tommie couldn’t help grinning at her sister’s awed tone. “I told you I’m a changed woman.” But even as the assertion left her mouth, Paulo’s words went through her mind, taunting her. Good thing I’m a changed man.

  Like hell, Tommie thought.

  Frankie said, “I hear what you’re saying about Paulo, but I wouldn’t be too quick to write him off. I’ll admit that my first impression of him wasn’t all that great. I thought he was cocky, a little too rough around the edges, a shameless womanizer—”

  “I’ll stop you when you start lying,”
Tommie drawled.

  Frankie laughed. “The point is, since Paulo and Sebastien are such good friends, I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. And I’m glad I did. Because the more I got to know Paulo, the better I liked him. He has a wicked sense of humor, and Sebastien says he’s one of the best detectives he’s ever worked with. And you should see how good he is with Kaia, Ramon, and Marcos. They positively adore him. I don’t know about you, but to me there’s nothing sexier than a tough guy with a soft spot for kids.”

  “Okay, that’s the second time you’ve called Paulo sexy,” Tommie said, deliberately ignoring the rest of what her sister had said. “I hope for your sake that Sebastien didn’t hear you.”

  “Oh, hush. Sebastien has no reason to be jealous. He knows how incredible I think he is. And, no, I’m not saying that because he just walked into the room.” The low, deep timbre of Sebastien’s voice could be heard in the background. Frankie’s amused response was muffled, as if she’d covered the mouthpiece with her hand. A moment later, Tommie heard what sounded suspiciously like soft kissing noises.

  She rolled her eyes, then cleared her throat loudly.

  Frankie came back on the line, mumbling sheepishly, “Sorry about that.”

  Tommie grinned. “I was going to say you two should get a room, but I guess you’re already one step ahead of me.”

  Frankie chuckled. “Well, let me run. I still need to go over my presentation before bedtime. I’ll call you tomorrow to let you know how it went.”

  “Okay. Knock ’em dead, kiddo. And kiss Marcos for me.”

  “Will do.”

  Tommie hung up the phone and took a long sip of merlot, savoring the smooth, rich flavor in her mouth before swallowing.

  One of the first good friends she’d made in New York had been a sommelier at an upscale restaurant in midtown Manhattan. Myles Sumter had taught Tommie practically everything he knew about wine, insisting that her preference for margaritas—“party-girl drinks,” he’d disdainfully called them—demonstrated an appalling lack of sophistication for one who’d been to Italy and France and should know better. The first time they’d gone out to dinner, Tommie, wanting to impress him, had ordered a glass of pinot grigio. Myles was so mortified she thought he’d swoon to the floor. After lecturing her about the inferiority of pinot grigio while the smirking sommelier looked on, Myles had changed her order to a cabernet sauvignon. After that night, he’d taken it upon himself to give her a crash course in wine appreciation, vowing to convert her into a respectable connoisseur, one who would never, ever embarrass herself again by ordering a cheap wine.

  At Tommie’s going-away party, Myles had surprised her with a gift-wrapped case of his favorite wines, saying sulkily, “Since you insist upon returning to that uncivilized, godforsaken state, this will at least ensure that you don’t revert to drinking beer and margaritas.”

  When Tommie laughingly pointed out to him that fine wines were also sold in Texas, he’d merely arched a dubious brow at her.

  Chuckling at the memory, Tommie raised her glass in a mock toast to Myles before drinking the rest of the merlot. She missed her old friend, as well as the vibrant life she’d carved out for herself in New York City. Her network of friends had included an eclectic cast of dancers and actors, activists and waiters, playwrights and writers—some struggling, others quite successful. When Tommie wasn’t touring the country with her dance company, she’d enjoyed shopping with her friends, going to the theater, jogging in Central Park, and attending fabulous dinner parties on the Upper West Side before catching a cab to her favorite nightclub in Harlem. Because she knew the right people, she’d always had a front-row seat at Fashion Week, and stealing kisses with hunky strangers on rooftop terraces had been the highlight of many raucous New Year’s Eve parties.

  It hadn’t taken Tommie long to become acclimated to the frenetic pace of New York City, with its incessant noise and traffic, its crowded streets and pulsing energy. She’d soaked it all up, embracing it so completely that most people she’d met had automatically assumed she was a native. Had her world not been turned upside down seven months ago, she’d still be living there.

  But you’re not, her conscience mocked. When the going got tough, you packed up and ran away like a coward. Guess you weren’t much of a New Yorker after all.

  Rousing herself from her gloomy thoughts, Tommie rose and carried her empty wineglass over to the kitchen sink. She washed and rinsed the glass, along with the dishes she and Paulo had used. When she’d finished, she switched off the light and headed toward her bedroom. She’d been up since the crack of dawn working on choreography for a local dance troupe scheduled to perform at the city’s Thanksgiving Day Parade later that month. And tomorrow promised to be an even longer day, with her last class ending at 8:00 p.m.

  The grueling schedule was nothing new to Tommie. As a professional dancer, she’d begun each day with a rigorous hour of classroom instruction followed by several hours of rehearsal or a performance in the evening. The demands of traveling, practicing, and performing on a nightly basis had been physically exhausting, and there were many nights, as she’d soaked her aching muscles in a hot bath, that Tommie had questioned her sanity for wanting to become a dancer. But the doubts never lasted for very long. Ever since she was a little girl, twirling around the house in her pink tutu and pink tights, she’d dreamed of performing on Broadway. Dancing was in her blood and always would be, though at thirty-three, even she could admit that the wear and tear of dancing was beginning to catch up to her. Gone were the days that she could party all night and still get up early to exercise without feeling like shit. She needed her eight hours of sleep as much as she needed a healthy diet of nutritious, stamina-building foods.

  Yawning, Tommie entered her bedroom and flicked on a Tiffany floor lamp that cast a soft, golden glow over the room. She crossed to the large window, and with only a passing glance into the dark night, she drew the curtains closed. As she started toward the bathroom, she shook her hair free of its ponytail and peeled off her skirt, leggings, and leotard, dropping them to the floor as she went. She’d take a hot shower, then hit the sack.

  It wasn’t the exciting life she’d led in New York. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

  But for the first time ever, Tommie felt like she was finally in control of her life. She determined the number of clients she took on, she dictated the days and times her classes were held, she set her own fee schedule.

  She answered to no one but herself.

  And after everything she’d been through, being able to control her own destiny beat the hell out of exciting any day of the week.

  Standing in the shadow of a giant oak across the street from the small brick building, the stranger watched Tommie Purnell’s silhouette in the bedroom window. He’d timed his arrival to coincide with her nightly ritual of showering before bedtime.

  When the light went on in the room, his muscles had tightened. And then she’d appeared in the window, beautiful and alluring, and a hot rush of anticipation slid through his veins. When she glanced briefly outside, he’d huddled closer to the tree, although he knew she wouldn’t see him.

  Not yet. It wasn’t time.

  Closing his eyes, he imagined her undressing herself, slowly and seductively because she knew she had a captive audience. He saw the smooth, supple curves of her voluptuous body, her hair tumbling down her back in a rainfall of dark brown. In his mind’s eye she looked over her shoulder at him, her pouty lips curving in a sultry smile, her dark eyes beckoning invitingly to him. He imagined joining her in the steamy shower and pinning her against the tiled wall, her nails digging into his shoulders, her long legs wrapped around his waist, her head thrown back to expose her throat and those large, slick breasts as he rammed into her.

  He shuddered at the vivid image, his cock stiffening inside his pants, his blood heating. How he would have loved to cross the narrow street and sneak into the old building, to climb the stairs to the second-story lo
ft and let himself inside. He wanted to roam around her apartment, touching her things, drinking in her scent that lingered in the air. And when she emerged from the shower, he wanted to be there waiting for her. Waiting to strike.

  And he would.

  But not tonight.

  Tonight he would savor the thrill of setting his plan in motion, knowing it was just the beginning….

  Chapter 4

  It was after ten o’clock by the time Paulo steered his police cruiser through the tall iron gate that guarded the palatial residence of Ignacio and Naomi Santiago. The sprawling Mediterranean-style villa boasted stone columns, second-story balconies, a wraparound veranda, and lush, manicured gardens. The property was situated on five heavily wooded acres in River Oaks, home to Houston’s wealthy elite.

  Paulo followed the curve of the flagstone driveway and parked in front of the mansion. He took the stone steps three at a time, but just as he reached the massive front door, it swung open to reveal Naomi Santiago peering out anxiously at him.

  At age sixty-five Naomi didn’t look a day over forty, with her smooth mahogany skin, chic haircut, and trim figure. Whether she was decked out in Chanel or sporting her favorite faded jeans—as she was now—she’d always struck Paulo as having the proud, regal bearing of a queen. And what’s more, she had a heart of gold to match.

  She took one look at Paulo’s grim expression and lifted a trembling hand to her mouth. “Oh my God,” she breathed. “I was hoping it was a terrible mistake. So it is true. Maribel Cruz is dead.”

  Paulo hesitated, then nodded. “I’m sorry, Naomi.”

  As tears flooded her dark eyes, Paulo drew her into his arms. Even as a child he’d hated to see his cousin Naomi cry. Once when he and Rafe were seven, they’d inadvertently gotten separated from the rest of the family at a crowded amusement park. Rafe’s parents had been frantic with worry, locating the missing boys after a desperate search that had lasted two hours. The sight of Naomi Santiago’s haggard, tearstained face had made Paulo feel worse than any punishment he and Rafe could ever have received. And they’d received plenty.