Like No One Else

by Maureen Smith

  “What?”

  “Who’s Tommy? You were shouting his name when I walked into the room.”

  “Her name,” Paulo corrected. “And it’s not important.”

  Daniela frowned at him. “Not important? You sounded terrified, Paulo. Like something had really upset you.”

  “It was just a bad dream,” he muttered. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Before Daniela could argue, Paulo tossed back the covers and swung his long legs over the edge of the bed. After a quick glance down to make sure he hadn’t slept in the buff last night, as he often did, he stood and strode across the room to the adjoining bathroom, shutting the door behind him so he could take a leak.

  Shit, he wanted a smoke. Just to take the edge off his frayed nerves. The dream had been intense, disturbingly so. The shock and horror he’d felt when the dead woman’s face had morphed into Tommie Purnell’s had been all too real. His pulse still hadn’t returned to normal.

  He thought about calling Tommie just to see if she was okay, but what the hell would he say to her? That he’d dreamed about finding her dead, mutilated body in the woods? She’d probably call him a fucking psycho and hang up on him. And he wouldn’t blame her. He had no reason to spook her, or to attach any significance to the nightmare he’d just had. Maribel Cruz’s brutal murder had been fresh on his mind, considering that he’d left the crime scene just a few hours before he went to bed. It wasn’t the first time a victim from one of his homicide cases had worked his or her way into his subconscious, and it wouldn’t be the last. It was one of those “occupational hazards” nobody ever mentioned to you when you were thinking about joining the force.

  Washing his hands at the sink, Paulo surveyed his reflection in the mirror. He looked like hell, with bloodshot eyes, unruly hair, and nearly a week’s worth of dark stubble covering his jaw. He’d have to break down and shave before he left the house that morning. He didn’t want to embarrass his family by showing up at the law firm looking like a savage.

  Grimacing, Paulo rummaged in the cabinet until he located an electric razor and shaving cream, conveniently supplied by the housekeeper. He wished she’d left a fresh pack of Marlboros for him as well. Hell, he would have loved to draw in a deep lungful of nicotine right about now. Giving up smoking was harder than he’d ever imagined, and he’d kicked the habit more than four years ago. But every so often his body craved what it couldn’t have.

  Like too much booze.

  And Tommie Purnell.

  Ruthlessly shoving the thought aside, Paulo opened the bathroom door and called out to Daniela, “When’d you get in last night?”

  “Around one.” Daniela stood at the French doors, where she’d just opened the drapes to let in the sunlight. “Mom didn’t want me taking a cab late at night, so she sent Mr. Mackey to pick me up,” she added, referring to the family’s longtime driver. “Mom said you offered to do it, but she told you not to because she wanted me to be surprised when I got home and found you here.”

  “And were you?” Paulo drawled, lathering his face and neck with shaving cream.

  “Of course.” Daniela grinned. “I know how paranoid you are about keeping your coworkers from finding out we’re related. That’s the only reason you didn’t move into the guest cottage when Mom and Dad offered, even though you wouldn’t have had to pay rent and you could have enjoyed Lydia’s wonderful home cooking every night. And God knows the guest cottage is a helluva lot nicer than that dump you call an apartment.”

  “Don’t start,” Paulo warned, chuckling.

  “I know, I know.” Daniela heaved a long sigh, stretching out across the foot of the mahogany sleigh bed with her head propped in the crook of her palm. From that angle she could see Paulo through the open bathroom doorway. “Don’t mind me. I’m just feeling sorry for myself because I’m a thirty-four-year-old divorcee still living at home with my parents. I guess I just figured if you’d moved into the guest house, you’d always be around to keep me company.”

  “Not necessarily,” Paulo countered, gliding the electric razor along his throat. “Between your long hours and mine, we’d probably see each other about as often as we do now.”

  “You’re probably right.” Another deep sigh. “Listen to me, throwing a pity party for myself after the terrible thing that happened to poor Maribel Cruz. I couldn’t believe it when Mom called to tell me.”

  “Did you know Maribel?”

  “Not very well. I’d spoken to her a few times around the office, and she seemed really nice.” Daniela paused, making a face. “Unlike her boss.”

  “Ted Colston?”

  “Yeah. Him. I never understood how Maribel could put up with him. He’s such an asshole.”

  Paulo raised an amused brow. “He’s a lawyer. Isn’t that a given?”

  “Hey!” Daniela laughingly protested. “I’m a lawyer!”

  Paulo grinned through the white foam covering his face. “Seriously, though. What’s your beef with Ted Colston?”

  “God, where do I begin? The first time I met him, he was new to the firm, so he didn’t know who I was. When I walked into the conference room for a meeting, he automatically assumed I was a secretary, there to take notes and serve coffee. Before I could even sit down, he proceeded to tell me how he took his coffee—cream with one sugar.”

  Paulo chuckled. “Uh-oh. What’d you do?”

  Daniela’s hazel eyes sparkled with mischief. “I got his coffee and served it to him with a smile, sweet as you please. Everyone else was just staring at us, like they couldn’t believe what they were seeing. A few people were holding back grins, ’cause they knew Ted was going to feel like a real dumb-ass when he found out who I was. After one of the other attorneys opened the meeting with a few announcements, he turned it over to me, making a point of introducing me as Senior Associate Daniela Santiago.” She laughed, an infectious, rollicking sound. “You should have seen the look on Ted’s face once he made the connection. I thought he was going to shit all over his Armani suit! It was priceless.”

  Paulo grinned. “What a gringo.”

  “Tell me about it. Before I got down to business, I looked him in the eye and told him that one day, after my parents retired from practicing law, my sisters and I would be in charge of running the practice, and if he was fortunate enough to still be working for us, he could pour my coffee.”

  Paulo roared with laughter.

  Daniela smiled smugly. “He’s been kissing my ass ever since that day. But I know deep down inside he believes that the only reason I made partner is that my parents own the firm. But I worked my ass off to get where I am, and I had to pay my dues just like everyone else. If that chauvinistic, self-serving prick wants to believe otherwise, then—”

  “Fuck him,” Paulo finished calmly.

  “That’s right!”

  The two cousins grinned conspiratorially at each other in the mirror.

  Suddenly Daniela’s eyes lit up. “Hey, I’ve got an idea! Let’s go to the Breakfast Klub when you finish getting ready.”

  “This morning?”

  “Yeah. We haven’t been there in months, and I’ve been seriously craving some wings and waffles.”

  “Sounds good, but not today. I need to head to your office this morning and start interviewing Maribel’s coworkers, including your friend Colston.”

  “It’s not even seven o’clock yet. We can have breakfast and be at the office by nine. More people will be in by that time anyway. Come on, Paulo,” she cajoled, clasping her manicured hands together in a gesture of supplication. “It sounds like you’re going to have a pretty full day ahead of you. Might as well start it off right with a lip-smacking, rib-sticking breakfast at our favorite place. Can’t you just taste those wings and waffles? The catfish and grits? Mmm-mmm, good.”

  Paulo grinned. She did have a point. Tasked with a new homicide investigation, he had no doubt that he was in for a very long day; he’d be lucky if he managed to squeeze in a lunch break, today or any other tim
e this week. And the food served at the Breakfast Klub, a popular restaurant near downtown, was second to none.

  “Okay,” he agreed.

  Daniela whooped with delight. “Hurry up and get dressed so we can go,” she said eagerly, heading from the bedroom. “I can’t wait to tell you about the cute guy I met in New Mexico. I want to get your advice about long-distance relationships.”

  Paulo chuckled dryly, wondering when she would come to the realization that when it came to relationships, he was the absolute last person on earth to be dispensing advice. To her or anyone else.

  Chapter 5

  Tuesday, November 10

  “I just don’t understand it.”

  Tommie glanced up from shaking pepper on her grits to smile quizzically at the man seated across the table from her. “What?”

  Zhane Jeffers gestured expansively toward the thick Belgian waffle and fried chicken wings piled on her plate, along with a side order of buttery grits. “How do you eat the way you do and still keep that itty-bitty waist?” he said wonderingly.

  Tommie laughed. “I’m a dancer.”

  Zhane snorted. “So am I, honey, and there’s no way I could maintain this svelte figure if I pigged out the way you do. As if the waffles and wings weren’t fattening enough, you had to order grits, too?” Incredulous, he shook his head, neat black dreadlocks brushing his shoulders. “Your metabolism must be fierce.”

  Tommie grinned. “At least for now. Knock on wood,” she said, rapping her knuckle on the smooth cherry table. She ate a forkful of waffle and let out a deep, appreciative sigh. “Mmm, that is sooo good. You don’t know what you’re missing, Zhany.”

  “Oh yes, I do,” he retorted, lifting a cup of creamy coffee to his mouth. “High cholesterol, high blood pressure, clogged arteries, diabetes, obesity, and heart disease. If you don’t believe me, just look at my family. Every last one of them belongs on that reality show for fat-asses who need to lose weight—The Biggest Loser.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a killjoy,” Tommie chided, even as she happily went to work on a chicken wing.

  Zhane just smiled indulgently and shook his head at her. He was an attractive, dark-skinned man in his early thirties with the trim, lithe physique of a dancer and the moody temperament to match. He and Tommie had crossed paths for the first time shortly after she’d moved to Houston. She’d been at the grocery store, unconsciously doing a series of pliés while she waited in a long checkout line, when an amused voice behind her had drawled, “Built like an hourglass, but moves like a prima ballerina.”

  Tommie had whirled around, hands on hips, a stinging retort on the tip of her tongue for the impertinent stranger. But one look at the dreadlocked black man dressed in drag, and she’d quickly realized she wasn’t being hit on. The appreciation glowing in the stranger’s dark eyes had been that of one dancer admiring another. They’d quickly struck up a conversation, each delighted to learn that the other had performed on Broadway. Zhane, now a member of the Houston Metropolitan Dance Company, had invited Tommie to a friend’s costume party that evening, and they’d been inseparable ever since.

  Every Tuesday morning they met at the Breakfast Klub, a hip soul food restaurant best known for its signature dishes—catfish and grits, and wings and waffles. The surroundings were simple yet stylish, with the works of local artists showcased on the walls and both smooth jazz and gospel drifting from the stereo. Even at that early hour the place was packed, every table and booth occupied. On Saturdays the line went out the door and wrapped around the small building.

  “Why don’t you blow off your classes today and go to the Galleria with me?” Zhane suggested, spreading raspberry jam on his toast. That was all he’d ordered—coffee and toast. A waste, Tommie thought. “There’s a sale at Neiman Marcus.”

  Tommie groaned. “Why are you torturing me, Zhany? You know I can’t go shopping with you. Even if I could cancel the rest of my classes today—which I wouldn’t—I’m on a budget.”

  “A budget?” Zhane sounded scandalized, as if she’d just announced she was becoming a Republican.

  Tommie laughed. “Yes. A budget. I need to be frugal with my finances. I still want to make a few renovations to my building, and pretty soon I’ll be hiring another instructor, who sure as hell ain’t gonna work for free.”

  Zhane sniffed. “Too bad. I saw a pair of Jimmy Choo peep-toe pumps that had your name written all over them, honey.”

  Tommie whimpered pathetically.

  Zhane chuckled. “I know you’re enjoying doing your own thing, sugarplum, but in case the teaching gig doesn’t work out for you, you know Richard would love to have you on board.”

  Tommie snorted. “Tell me something I don’t know,” she muttered, thinking of the dance company’s artistic director, who made a point of seeking her out every time she attended one of Zhane’s performances, smiling and gazing at her in a way that made her skin crawl. Tommie was no fool. She knew Richard Houghton was interested in a helluva lot more than her dancing skills.

  “What do you have against Dick?” As soon as the words left his mouth, Zhane grinned at his own double entendre. Several other diners, overhearing the question, glanced over at them and snickered.

  When Tommie glared at Zhane, he laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “Girl, don’t worry. Nobody’s gonna mistake your fine ass for a fishmonger. As I was saying, I can’t understand why you don’t like Richard. He’s smart, talented, reasonably attractive. His family is loaded, and unlike most of the male dancers I know, he actually likes women. What more could a straight girl ask for?”

  Tommie shrugged, nibbling on the strawberry that had topped her waffle. “I’m sure Richard is a decent guy. But he just doesn’t do it for me. To be perfectly honest with you—and I’ll kill you if you repeat this to anyone—he gives me the creeps.”

  Zhane’s perfectly manicured brows shot up in surprise. “What do you mean he gives you the creeps? In what way?”

  “Well, the way he stares at me makes me uncomfortable.”

  Zhane guffawed. “Honey, please! Have you looked in the mirror lately? Men stare at you all the time. You should be used to it by now.”

  “I know,” Tommie muttered, wishing she’d just kept her big mouth shut. “But it’s different with Richard. I don’t know how to explain it. The way he looks at me…It’s like he knows a secret about me, or thinks he does. It’s creepy.”

  Zhane grinned. “Maybe he does know a secret about you. I heard you were a naughty little girl up there in New York.”

  Tommie smiled, but it was forced. Zhane’s teasing remark had hit a little too close to home, reminding her of the reason she’d fled New York in the first place. Although Zhane was the least judgmental person she knew, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him about the terrible scandal that had led to her release from the Blane Bailey Dance Company. The one time she’d almost confided in Zhane, she’d quickly talked herself out of it.

  Shame was a powerful captor.

  Noticing her strained expression, Zhane frowned. “Oh, honey, you’re serious about this, aren’t you? Richard really does make you uncomfortable.”

  “It’s not a big deal. Really. Forget I said anything.”

  Zhane looked unconvinced. “If he ever says or does anything inappropriate, sugarplum, just say the word and I’ll kick his ass for you.”

  Tommie laughed, though she knew that Zhane could back up his threat. He’d grown up in the Third Ward, one of the poorest, most crime-infested communities in Houston. Throughout his childhood he’d been forced to defend himself against neighborhood bullies who’d routinely picked on him because he was different. It hadn’t taken Zhane long to realize that the only way he could survive the bullying was to fight back. So that’s what he’d done—and had been doing ever since. Once at a club, Tommie had watched him go off on a big, mean-looking biker who’d made the mistake of calling Zhane a queer behind his back—something the man had undoubtedly regretted by the time Zhane got through with him.
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  Chuckling at the memory, Tommie drawled, “Thanks for the offer, sweetie, but that won’t be necessary. Besides, I wouldn’t want to be responsible for getting you kicked out of the dance company for assaulting the director. I’d never forgive myself.”

  But Zhane was no longer listening to her. He was staring across the crowded room, an appreciative gleam filling his dark eyes as he announced in a theatrical falsetto, “Hottie alert.”

  Smiling, Tommie followed the direction of his gaze. And froze.

  There, standing near the front of the restaurant, was Paulo Sanchez.

  Her heart thumped.

  Although he’d obviously shaved, and had traded in yesterday’s leather jacket and black jeans for a dark turtleneck and charcoal trousers, Paulo still managed to exude a raw, rugged masculinity that left no doubt that beneath the tamed facade beat the heart of a virile, primitive male.

  Not surprisingly, he wasn’t alone. Standing beside him, her arm tucked companionably through his, was an exotic young beauty who looked like a haute couture model, with her ultrachic bob and glam Chanel pantsuit. Tommie told herself the dagger of envy she felt had more to do with the woman’s killer threads than the way she was latched on to Paulo’s arm.

  “Mmm, he is scrumptious,” Zhane purred. “He has that whole rugged thing going on. A dangerous edge. Me likey.”

  Tommie’s mouth curved. “I don’t think you’re his type, Zhany.”

  Zhane feigned innocence. “What type? Handsome and fashionably dressed?”

  Tommie laughed.

  As if he’d picked up on the sound Paulo turned his head, his gaze locking on to hers. Tommie’s stomach bottomed out. The laughter died on her lips.

  They stared at each other for a long, charged moment.

  Without breaking eye contact, Paulo leaned down and murmured something to his companion, who nodded and glanced across the room. The next thing Tommie knew, the couple began heading toward her table.