Like No One Else

by Maureen Smith

  Seeing the blinking light on his telephone, he checked his voice mail messages. After listening to the soft, purring voices of two women he couldn’t readily identify, he muttered a curse on all females who didn’t leave their names on answering machines.

  Shrugging out of his jacket and shoulder holster, he made his way past the dining room to the small, utilitarian kitchen. He surveyed the meager contents of his refrigerator, grunting in disgust when he found nothing appetizing.

  Grabbing a bottled water—though he would have given anything for a cold beer—he twisted off the top and kicked the refrigerator door closed. As he left the kitchen he thought of the delicious home-cooked meal he could be enjoying this very minute if he’d accepted Naomi’s invitation to move into the guest cottage at their River Oaks estate. But he’d refused because, as Daniela had noted, it would be pretty damned hard to keep his colleagues from finding out he was related to the powerful Santiago family when he shared the same address.

  Paulo knew his modest two-bedroom unit was a far cry from the swanky guest cottage he could have inhabited. But at least his place was neat, he mused, noting the polished tabletops, gleaming leather furniture, and vacuumed floors. Last year for his birthday, Naomi, after one too many visits to his pigsty of an apartment, had decided what he needed more than anything was a good housekeeper. So she’d bought him a five-year gift certificate to a professional cleaning service. It was the most practical gift Paulo had ever received. It was also one of the best.

  He took a long pull from his bottle as he made his way back to the living room, where the evening news was blaring on the television. He flopped down on the chocolate leather sofa and propped one booted foot on the coffee table, knowing this would have earned him a disapproving frown from the cleaning lady.

  Paulo chuckled at the thought as he began watching coverage of the day’s top stories. The lead segment was about a domestic shooting that had happened that morning in the Third Ward. A man accused of shooting his girlfriend’s teenage son was on the run, while the victim remained in critical condition at an area hospital. Paulo had heard about the shooting on his police band as he was driving to Kathleen Phillips’s apartment that morning. Although the case was being handled by South Central Patrol, which served the Third Ward, all local law enforcement officers had been advised to be on the lookout for the fugitive.

  “In our other top story this evening,” the news anchor continued, “police are still searching for a suspect in the brutal slaying of twenty-nine-year-old Maribel Cruz. Cruz, who worked as a legal secretary at the prestigious law firm of Santiago and Associates, was found stabbed to death in her uptown home on Monday night. Police investigators have ruled out robbery as a motive, leaving Cruz’s family and friends to wonder who could have killed Maribel—a loving daughter, sister, and friend who will be missed by everyone who knew her.”

  Paulo grimaced, his gut twisting as Maribel’s grief-stricken parents appeared on the television screen to tearfully beseech anyone with information about their daughter’s murder to come forward. He sat there watching the couple, battling a sense of frustration and guilt for not doing more to find the monster responsible for putting them through this nightmare. These people deserved justice. Maribel deserved justice.

  But if there was one thing Paulo had learned over the course of his career, it was that justice too often eluded the innocent. And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

  Brooding, he sat through one more news segment about a fatal car collision on the freeway before he decided he’d had enough. But just as he reached for the remote control to turn the channel, the news anchor, segueing to another story, cheerfully announced, “Aspiring dance students at the University of Houston were treated to a special appearance today by local dancer and choreographer Tommie Purnell.”

  And there she was.

  The woman Paulo had been trying unsuccessfully to put out of his mind for the past twenty-four hours.

  Paulo stared at the television, riveted by an image of Tommie addressing a packed theater, followed by footage of her leaping gracefully across the stage as she delighted the audience with a live dance demonstration. His pulse thudded as he watched her being interviewed by the reporter after the lecture. Beneath her serious facade, there was a naughty glimmer in her dark eyes, in the coy smile that curved her full lips. The woman oozed sensuality even when she wasn’t trying.

  Paulo felt a current of lust in his blood. Before he knew it his mind had wandered, conjuring an image of Tommie lying upon her back, naked and wanting, her lips parted, cheeks flushed, and those sultry eyes glazed with wet, hot desire.

  He swore under his breath, cursing his vivid imagination and the damned news broadcast for making it impossible for him to get her off his mind.

  Punching off the television in disgust, he downed the rest of his bottled water as if it were tequila and lurched to his feet, intending to do something—anything—that would free his thoughts of the damned woman.

  As he started toward the kitchen to make a quick sandwich, the doorbell rang. Paulo frowned, glancing down at his watch. It was ten thirty. Who the hell was visiting him at this time of night?

  He strode to the door and checked the peephole. He thought his eyes were deceiving him when he saw Tommie standing on his doorstep, holding a brown paper bag. You’ve got to be kidding me, he mentally groaned. He just couldn’t get away from the woman!

  Reluctantly he unlocked the door and opened it. “Well, well, well,” he drawled, folding his arms across his chest and leaning on the doorjamb with an air of lazy insolence. “I thought you never wanted to see me again.”

  Those lush lips curved. “That was yesterday. Today’s a new day.”

  “Is that so?” Paulo murmured, deliberately letting his gaze roam the length of her body. Her long, honey-streaked hair was windswept, falling in coquettish disarray about her face and shoulders. She wore black leather boots and a shiny black trench coat that was belted tightly around her waist, making him speculate about what was hidden beneath.

  “How did you know where I live?” he asked.

  Tommie laughed, low and husky. “Just because I’m not a detective doesn’t mean I can’t find an address.” Without waiting for an invitation she swept past him into the apartment, ushering in the scent of the crisp fall night mingled with the spicy, appetizing aroma of Thai food.

  “So this is the proverbial bachelor pad,” she teased, taking a slow turn around the foyer before strolling into the living room as if she owned the place. She glanced around at the dark, contemporary furnishings and nodded approvingly. “It’s much nicer than I expected. Cleaner, too.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Paulo muttered wryly.

  Tommie grinned. “Don’t take it the wrong way. You just don’t strike me as the type of guy who’d know how to decorate, much less be a neat freak,” she said, running a manicured fingertip across the polished surface of a side table.

  Paulo considered, then decided against telling her that a professional cleaning service was responsible for the pristine state of his apartment. Let her think she’d been wrong about him.

  He followed her as she moved on to the small dining room, setting the takeout bag on the gleaming cherry table, where fresh-cut flowers had been arranged in a crystal vase Paulo had never seen before. Because he tipped generously, the cleaning lady always left nice little surprises for him.

  “When I called the station, they told me you’d just left for the day,” Tommie said, untying her trench. “I took a chance that you hadn’t eaten dinner yet. I hope you’re hungry. I ordered a lot of food.”

  Paulo was hungry all right, but it wasn’t the prospect of eating dinner that had him salivating. Tommie had removed her coat, and when he got an eyeful of her in a black shorts jumper that molded the voluptuous curves of her body, he nearly swallowed his damned tongue. The outfit, coupled with a pair of thigh-high stiletto boots, fueled his imagination with erotic fantasies of dominatrix games. Handcuff
s, black leather, spanking, and the wicked crack of a whip.

  “Where can I hang this up?” Tommie asked.

  Paulo blinked at her, feeling dazed. “What?”

  Her mouth twitched. “I need to hang my coat in the closet.”

  “Oh. Here, I’ll take it.”

  She passed it to him, then turned and headed for the kitchen, hips swinging seductively. Paulo stared after her, lust clawing at his insides.

  After hanging her coat in the hall closet, he retraced his steps to the kitchen, where he found her leaning over as she surveyed the dismal contents of the refrigerator. Her shorts had ridden up her deliciously round buttocks, and her leather boots molded her long, curvaceous legs like a second skin. Blood rushed straight to Paulo’s groin as he imagined those killer legs locked around his waist during hot, no-holds-barred sex.

  “What’re you looking for?” he asked, his voice so low and rough he hardly recognized it.

  Tommie shook her head, chuckling. “Just as I suspected. Bare as a bone. I knew there was a typical bachelor hiding around here somewhere.”

  “Yeah, well, we can’t all have personal chefs who bake lasagna and peach cobblers for us.”

  She laughed. “Don’t be jealous,” she teased, grabbing two bottles of Coke from the refrigerator and bumping the door closed with her hip. Paulo dragged his gaze from her luscious butt just as she turned, passing him the drinks.

  “Plates?” she asked.

  Paulo pointed, then resumed watching her ass while she retrieved two plates from the cabinet.

  Once they were seated at the table, he surveyed the fragrant, generous portions of Pad Thai, curry chicken, and pineapple fried rice, and felt his stomach growl softly in anticipation. But as he reached for a fork, he was struck by a sudden thought.

  “How do I know you haven’t poisoned the food?”

  Tommie choked out a laugh. “Excuse me?”

  “You were pretty pissed off at me last night. And then out of the clear blue you show up at my apartment bearing dinner? How do I know I’m not going to bite into a spring roll and come away with a mouthful of cyanide?”

  She chuckled, shaking her head. “What a twisted little mind you have, Detective. But if you knew how much I love eating, you would know I’d never do anything as sacrilegious as wasting perfectly good Thai.” She paused, lips pursed thoughtfully. “If I really wanted to kill you, I’m sure I could think of far more creative ways.”

  Paulo laughed grimly. “I’m sure I’ll sleep better tonight knowing that.”

  Tommie grinned. “And just to prove to you that I haven’t tampered with the food—” She picked up his spring roll and bit into it with a low, appreciative moan that made his loins tighten in a hot rush.

  “See? No poison. Now your turn.” As she held out the spring roll to him, Paulo couldn’t help wondering what must have gone through Adam’s mind before he’d accepted the forbidden fruit from Eve.

  Holding Tommie’s gaze, Paulo leaned forward and took a bite of the proffered spring roll. He chewed slowly, watching her eyes turn smoky with desire.

  “Good?”

  “Very,” he murmured.

  “I told you,” she whispered, biting into the roll after him. Paulo stared at her, wondering how she managed to make the simple act of eating feel like foreplay. Suddenly he wanted to sweep away the food, lift her into his arms, and stretch her out across the table. He wanted to peel that hot little number off her body, drape her legs over his shoulders—leaving the thigh-high boots on—and bury his tongue in the hot, slick folds of her sex.

  The urge was so powerful that he had to force himself to look away from her just to break the sensual spell she’d cast over him. Because there was no doubt in his mind that she had cast a spell over him.

  And something told him she knew it, too.

  Paulo frowned, unnerved by the idea of losing the upper hand to her, to any woman, after he’d sworn never to let such a thing happen again.

  As they ate, he was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he only half listened as Tommie chattered easily about her day, telling him about the lecture she’d given that morning, describing the sense of pride and gratification she’d felt while talking to the dance students afterward. It was only when she mentioned being at the hospital to visit a critically wounded teenager that Paulo snapped to attention.

  “Wait a minute,” he interrupted, staring at her. “Are you talking about the fourteen-year-old kid who was shot by his mother’s boyfriend this morning?”

  Tommie nodded. “It’s so sad. Zhane and his family are devastated. Kadeem is Zhane’s favorite nephew. If he doesn’t pull through this—”

  “The victim was Zhane’s nephew?” Paulo asked in surprise.

  “Yes. I said that before.” Tommie frowned at him. “Haven’t you been listening to me?”

  “Off and on,” he admitted sheepishly.

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course. Hearing about a girly dance lecture doesn’t hold your interest, but as soon as I mention a shooting, you’re all ears.”

  “I’m a cop,” Paulo said, as if that should explain everything. “Now tell me how it went down.”

  Tommie blew out a deep breath. “Zhane has a younger sister named Zakia. This morning she—”

  “Zhane and Zakia?”

  “And two more brothers named Zachary and Zeke.” She shrugged, mouth twitching. “What can I say? Their mother had a thing for names starting with the letter z. Anyway, Zakia and her live-in boyfriend were arguing this morning, which, from what I understand, is nothing new. When the argument got a little too heated, Zakia’s son, Kadeem, stepped in to defend his mother. I guess Zakia’s boyfriend—his name is Chauncey Booker—didn’t appreciate Kadeem’s interference. He got angry, went for his gun, and shot Kadeem in the chest. While Zakia was kneeling over her son’s body and screaming at Chauncey, begging him to call for help, he panicked and took off. No one has seen him since.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Paulo muttered, shaking his head in grim disgust. “How’s the kid doing?”

  “He’s still in critical condition. He lost a lot of blood. The doctor says the bullet just narrowly missed his heart.”

  Paulo grimaced. “Lucky kid.”

  “Yeah,” Tommie murmured, “but he’s got a ways to go before he’s out of the woods. I wanted to stay at the hospital with Zhane. I even packed an overnight bag just in case. But Zhane wouldn’t hear of it. He told me to go home, said he didn’t want his crazy family driving me insane by morning.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  She chuckled softly. “Let’s just say they would’ve made the Osbournes look like the Huxtable family.”

  Paulo grinned. “That is bad.”

  “Tell me about it.” She took a sip of her Coke. “At least Zhane turned out normal.”

  Paulo burst out laughing.

  Tommie lowered her bottle, staring indignantly at him. “What’s so funny?” When he just shook his head, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Are you saying you don’t think Zhane is normal? Because he’s gay?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But that’s what you were thinking,” Tommie accused. “I know how guys like you are wired.”

  “Guys like me?”

  “That whole machismo thing. In the Hispanic culture, it’s acceptable for men to think they’re superior to women, let alone girly men. Your manhood is your badge of honor. Your dick is your weapon. The bigger it is, the harder your swagger.”

  Paulo stared at her, torn between amusement and insult. “First of all,” he said succinctly, “don’t presume to lecture me about what is, and isn’t, acceptable in the Hispanic culture. Last I checked, the black community ain’t too fond of gay people, either. My reaction to your comment about Zhane being normal had more to do with his wacky personality than his sexual orientation. I don’t give a shit who he sleeps with. Matter of fact, if he weren’t gay, I’d have to worry about him trying to get in your pants. And as for that other matter,”
he said, leaning forward to bring his lips close to her ear, “if you want to see how big my dick is, I’m sure something can be arranged.”

  He drew away slowly, watching with satisfaction as Tommie drew a deep, shaky breath and averted her gaze. “Maybe I overreacted a little,” she mumbled.

  “Just a little,” Paulo agreed, his tone mild. “But I get it. You and Zhane are best friends. He probably doesn’t get a lot of support from his family, even though he’s always there for them. You’re protective over him, don’t want to see him hurt or wrongly judged.”

  Tommie stared at him in surprised wonder. “How’d you know all that?”

  Paulo shrugged. “I’m a detective. It’s my job to be perceptive.”

  “And you definitely are.” Her lips quirked. “It’s kind of scary, actually.”

  He merely smiled.

  “Speaking of detectives,” Tommie continued, frowning, “Zhane said the one assigned to their case has been giving them the runaround all day. All the family wants is an update on the status of the search for Zakia’s boyfriend. Considering what they’ve been through today, I don’t think it’s asking too much for someone to return their phone calls.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be notified when more information is available,” Paulo said diplomatically.

  Tommie gave him a look.

  After another moment, he relented with a sigh. “I’ll make a few calls after dinner, see what I can find out.”

  She smiled at him in a way that made him feel absurdly heroic, something he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Longer than he cared to remember. Softly she said, “Thank you, Paulo.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he said gruffly.

  Their gazes held. The moment stretched into two.

  “Do you realize this is the third night in a row we’ve eaten dinner together?” Tommie murmured.

  “The thought crossed my mind.” Paulo’s mouth twitched with humor. “I’m still trying to get over the fact that you’re here.”

  She shrugged, absently pushing a lone chunk of pineapple around her plate. “I know we departed on bad terms yesterday—”