Like No One Else

by Maureen Smith

  The shaky giggle that escaped Tommie’s throat felt alarmingly like a sob. “You have a good memory.”

  His teeth flashed in a brief, wicked grin. “Your ass is unforgettable,” he said, giving it another appreciative squeeze.

  Her heart thundered as his other hand slid down over her flat belly, lower and lower, dipping below the waistband of her underwear. She gasped and arched as his fingers cupped her mound, smooth-shaven with just a teasing puff of hair shielding her clitoris.

  “Mmmm, very nice,” he murmured huskily. “Every damned inch of you is sexy.”

  Tommie moaned, her legs opening wider, seduced by his words and the velvety, hypnotic timbre of his voice. His teeth sank into her shoulder, biting and licking her while he spread her hot, silky juices over her swollen labia. Sensual tremors swept through her at his skillful touch. Aching with a savage need to have him inside her, she rubbed her bottom against the hot brand of his erection.

  He made a harsh animal sound deep in his throat. Seizing the hair at the nape of her neck with his other hand, he pulled her head back until she was forced to turn her head, meeting the feral intensity of his gaze.

  “You’re a naughty girl, aren’t you?” he murmured, his thumb circling her clitoris in a slow, sensual rhythm as he watched her face. “You like torturing me. Strutting around here in those dominatrix boots, teasing me with these see-through panties. You’re trying to kill me.”

  “You know you like it,” she taunted. “You—”

  Her voice choked off into a keening cry as he thrust a finger deep inside her. She braced herself against the edge of the kitchen counter and widened her stance, opening eagerly for him.

  “God, you feel so good,” he told her, his voice rough with pleasure. “So tight and slippery.”

  He slid his finger out of her and thrust again, this time with two fingers, pushing deeper. Tommie let out a sob, her thighs clenching desperately around his hand. A fiery, trembling sensation was spreading throughout her body. An orgasm shimmered on the horizon.

  Paulo rocked his hips against hers while his long fingers stroked, caressed, undid her. She came violently in an erotic cascade of hot, bursting pleasure that tore a scream from her throat.

  Long moments later when the spasms had ceased, Paulo slowly withdrew his hand from between her shaking thighs. With a deep, purring sigh Tommie turned in the cradle of his embrace and looped her arms around his neck, kissing him softly. She could feel the quivering tension in his muscular body, could feel his heart beating rapidly against her own.

  “That was absolutely wonderful,” she breathed, nibbling his sensual bottom lip.

  His dark, hooded eyes blazed with fierce arousal. “There’s plenty more where that came from,” he said, low and guttural.

  Tommie let out a whispery laugh. “I don’t doubt it. But what you just did to me is about all I can handle for now. Can I take a rain check?”

  She saw the moment he realized that the tables had turned, that the balance of power had shifted away from him. A dark current of anger and frustration flared in his eyes. His jaw hardened.

  He shook his head slowly at her. “No rain checks, querida. If you want me, it’s now or never.”

  Tommie held his gaze for a long, charged moment.

  She wanted nothing more than to surrender to him, to let him sweep her off her feet and carry her down the hall to his bedroom. She wanted him to make love to her, knew that it would be an electrifying, unforgettable experience. But she’d vowed to make him pay for humiliating her last night, and she wasn’t about to pass up what might be her only chance to get revenge.

  Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

  “Not that your offer doesn’t sound tempting,” Tommie murmured at length, “but I really need to get some sleep if I want to be able to function during my classes today.” She reached up, running her fingers through the thick, silky brush of his hair. “God, you have beautiful hair. I’ve been wanting to do that all night.”

  A muscle clenched in his jaw. “Tommie—”

  She smiled demurely, pulling out of his arms. “If you change your mind about that rain check, come see me sometime.”

  And with that she turned and strolled out of the kitchen, basking in the sweet glow of victory.

  Even if she’d just condemned herself to an eternity of sexual frustration.

  She was waiting for him.

  Hidden in the shadows of the aging cypress tree in the small backyard, the stranger trained his gaze on the lit bedroom window. At any moment the blonde would emerge from the bathroom, water dripping from her long hair, a towel draped around her pale, supple body.

  He waited in the darkness, hearing the sound of his own heartbeat and the soft sigh of the wind rustling the branches of the tree that sheltered him. The night was cool and humid. Rising clouds of mist swirled from the damp ground. Rain had been forecast for tomorrow night, so he’d had to act today.

  Because it was late, few lights glowed in the windows of the surrounding shotgun houses. Down the street, a neighbor’s dog barked, petitioning to be let inside. But the animal was too far away to pose any threat to him. He’d made sure of that when he chose her.

  His next victim.

  He checked his digital watch, licked his lips in anticipation.

  It was time.

  He crept soundlessly across the weed-choked lawn and climbed the old, rickety porch stairs. After days of practice he knew just where to step, knew which floorboards creaked. He’d taken every precaution. Just as always.

  At the back door he paused, every muscle tense as he listened for approaching footsteps from within the house.

  But he knew she hadn’t heard him.

  She was waiting for him in the bedroom.

  Where she was supposed to be.

  He knelt down, reaching inside a potted plant that had shriveled and died a long time ago. His gloved fingers closed around the spare key hidden in the dirt. This, too, was where it was supposed to be.

  Barely breathing, he inserted the key. The lock gave way with the barest hint of sound. He opened the door just wide enough to slip through. Once he was safely inside he pocketed the key, to be returned to its hiding place on his way out.

  On silent footsteps he walked through the small, darkened kitchen, mentally clucking his tongue at the dirty dishes piled in the sink and the empty beer bottles littering the counter. The blonde was a slob. Unlike the other one, who’d been meticulous to the point of being obsessed.

  A brief smile flitted across his face at the thought of Maribel Cruz. Sweet, beautiful, trusting. Too trusting.

  Unlike the blonde, who was too jaded to trust anyone.

  Except him.

  She trusted him.

  And it would cost her dearly.

  Feeling a hot rush steal through his blood, he crept down the hallway toward his destination, past the cluttered living room and around the first corner.

  As he neared the blonde’s bedroom he heard her humming cheerfully. He smiled, a cold, narrow smile.

  He reached the doorway. She had just stepped from the shower. A cloud of steam floated from the open bathroom door. She was bent over at the waist, towel-drying her long blond hair. A pink towel was wrapped loosely around her body.

  At his appearance, she glanced up with a startled gasp. Her blue eyes widened in surprised recognition. “Hey! You’re early,” she said accusingly.

  He stepped into the room. “Am I?”

  “Yeah. I said to be here at—” She broke off suddenly, frowning. “Wait a minute. How the hell did you get inside my house?”

  He smiled, slowly advancing on her. “With the key you left for me.”

  Her frown deepened. “I never left you a damn key. How did you know about—” She stared at him, her eyes filling with sudden comprehension. “Oh no,” she whispered fearfully.

  As she turned to flee, he lunged.

  Before she could scream he was upon her, his gloved hand clamping viciously over her m
outh. His other arm arced upward in front of her terrified face.

  In his hand, the long blade of a knife glinted in the overhead light.

  The blade slashed downward.

  The blonde never stood a chance.

  Chapter 13

  Thursday, November 12

  When Paulo answered his door the next morning, Julius Donovan took one look at his bloodshot eyes and unshaven face, and said, “You look like shit.”

  Paulo scowled. “Good morning to you, too, partner.”

  Donovan laughed, holding two cups of Starbucks coffee. “Hey, don’t get mad at me. I’m just keeping it real. You look bad, man. But cheer up. I brought you…” He trailed off, his dark eyes widening as he stared over Paulo’s shoulder.

  Tommie was striding into the living room, dark hair swaying about her face and shoulders, long legs encased in tight denim. “I’d love to stay and make you breakfast,” she was saying, “but I’m running late. Maybe we—” She broke off at the sight of Donovan standing at the front door. “Oh, hello there.”

  Donovan opened his mouth, but no sound emerged.

  Rolling his eyes in disgust, Paulo muttered introductions.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Detective Donovan,” Tommie said, smiling as she came forward to shake his hand.

  “Please call me Julius,” the detective said, grinning so hard his eyes nearly disappeared in his face.

  Lips pursed, Tommie studied him thoughtfully. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

  “I don’t think so. I definitely would’ve remembered meeting someone as beautiful as you.” Oblivious of Paulo’s rolling eyes, Donovan continued. “But I’ve been told I look a lot like Kevin Garnett, so maybe that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Tommie smiled. “Yes, I can definitely see the resemblance. And it just so happens that he’s one of my favorite basketball players.”

  “Mine, too!” Donovan beamed, thoroughly bewitched.

  Another one bites the dust, Paulo thought sourly.

  “I’m sorry,” Donovan said. “If I’d known Sanchez had a guest, I would have bought an extra coffee.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll just take his.” Snagging one of the coffee cups in his hand, Tommie took an appreciative sip and sighed. “Good stuff.”

  Donovan’s grin widened with pleasure, as if he’d personally brewed the coffee. “Glad you like it.”

  “It’s wonderful.” Tommie turned, pressing a chaste kiss on Paulo’s stubble-roughened cheek. “I have to run. Thanks for letting me crash here last night.”

  “No problem,” Paulo muttered. “Anytime.”

  She gave him an easy grin, waved at Donovan, then turned and strolled out of the apartment, hair and hips swinging.

  Donovan stared after her as the door closed, then let out a long wolf whistle. “Isn’t she the one from the cover of that dance program?” he asked Paulo in an incredulous voice. “The dancer you told me about a while ago?”

  “One and the same.” Paulo trudged over to the sofa and sat down, reaching for his black boots.

  “I guess you gave up on trying to stay away from her, huh?”

  Paulo grunted noncommittally.

  “How do you do it, man?” Donovan asked enviously. “How do you hook up with all these fine honeys?”

  “I didn’t,” Paulo grumbled, shoving his foot into a boot. “Not with that one, anyway.”

  Donovan gaped at him. “You’re telling me that beautiful woman spent the night at your apartment—and nothing happened?”

  Paulo glanced pointedly at the folded blanket on the end of the sofa.

  Following the direction of his surly gaze, Donovan laughed. “You must be losing your touch, Sanchez.”

  More like losing my mind, Paulo thought grimly. After last night’s steamy interlude with Tommie, he’d tossed and turned for hours, hot, horny, and frustrated as hell. At one point he’d been tempted to sneak into the bedroom, slip beneath the covers, and kiss and caress Tommie until she just surrendered to him. He’d gotten up and was halfway down the hall before he came to his senses and turned around. He might be a shameless womanizer, but even he knew how to take no for an answer. Besides, he didn’t want to give Tommie any more power over him than she already had. Attempting to seduce her, after she’d already rebuffed him, would have played right into her scheming little hands.

  “No wonder you look like hell,” Donovan said, his eyes dancing with amusement.

  Paulo scowled, grabbing his leather jacket, weapon, and holster before stalking toward the door. As he passed his grinning partner, he snatched the cup of coffee out of his hand.

  “Hey!” Donovan protested.

  “That’s for letting her take mine,” Paulo growled.

  If Ted Colston was surprised to find two homicide detectives sitting in his office when he arrived that morning, he didn’t show it.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, striding briskly to his desk and setting down his monogrammed briefcase. Lowering himself into the chair, he divided a speculative glance between Paulo and Donovan, who had made themselves comfortable in the visitor chairs while they waited.

  “What can I do for you, Detectives?” Colston politely inquired. “I assume you’re here in reference to the investigation?”

  Instead of answering him, Paulo said mildly, “I missed you yesterday. I came to pay you a visit and was told you were out of town.”

  “Yes, my secretary called and informed me. I had an urgent matter to tend to in Austin. It couldn’t be helped. Anyway, I’m not sure what else you need from me. I’ve already told you everything I could about Maribel.”

  “Not everything,” Paulo said, deceptively soft.

  The attorney shot a glance at Donovan’s impassive face before his gaze returned to Paulo. “Okay. I give up. What did I fail to tell you?”

  “That you were sleeping with your secretary, for starters.”

  Colston, to his credit, didn’t so much as blink. He’d obviously prepared himself for the very real possibility that his affair with Maribel Cruz would be brought to light. So he didn’t waste time—theirs or his—denying it.

  “Sleeping with Maribel isn’t something I was proud of,” he said in a carefully measured voice.

  “Is that why you lied about it?” Donovan asked.

  “Of course.” Colston grimaced. “I’m a respected partner at this firm, a married man. Obviously I have good reasons for wanting to conceal the nature of my relationship with Maribel.”

  “Which makes me wonder,” Paulo murmured.

  Now Colston looked wary. “Wonder what?”

  “Wonder how far you would go to conceal, as you put it, the nature of your relationship with Maribel.”

  Colston stared at him, his expression turning from shock to outrage as Paulo’s implication became clear. “Are you suggesting that I killed her?”

  Paulo held his gaze unflinchingly. “You just said yourself that you had good reasons for lying about the affair. My partner and I, we call that motive.”

  Colston’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t kill Maribel.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “You’re mistaken, Detective,” Colston said succinctly. “I didn’t kill her, and there’s not a chance in hell that you can prove I did.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Paulo shrugged, as if the matter were of no consequence to him.

  Frowning, Colston looked to Donovan, hoping to plead his case to the more reasonable of the pair. “I admit I was wrong for withholding information about the affair, but that doesn’t make me a murderer. I never would have hurt Maribel. I cared about her. She was a damned good secretary—”

  “And a good lay, obviously,” Paulo calmly interjected. “You’d been sleeping with her since February. That must have been some addictive stuff.”

  Colston glared at him, anger hardening his features. “I’m not going to discuss the details of my sexual relationship with Maribel, if that’s what you’re expecting, Detective.”

  “The
y’re going to come out eventually,” Donovan said. “You can tell us now, or tell a jury later.”

  Colston flicked him a glance, smiling narrowly. “Nice try, Detective, but we both know you don’t have enough evidence to bring any charges against me. If you did, we’d be having this conversation at the police station, not here in my office.”

  “True enough,” Donovan conceded. “So, do you think Maribel was getting serious about you?”

  “No,” Colston said quickly. Too quickly.

  Donovan arched a brow. “Are you sure? See, it may have been just sex for you, but women are different. From what my partner tells me, Maribel had convinced herself she was in love with you. She wanted you to leave your wife, but she didn’t think you would.”

  “And she was right. I wasn’t going to leave my wife. And Maribel never asked me to.”

  “Even though she knew you were unhappy in your marriage?” Paulo prodded.

  Again Colston frowned. “I never said I was unhappy.”

  “No?”

  “No, I didn’t. Where did you—” He broke off suddenly as a recent memory surfaced. “Oh, I get it. Just because I told you the other day that Abby complains about my long work hours—”

  “And doesn’t want kids,” Paulo finished.

  Colston held his gaze for a long, tense moment, then glanced away. But not before Paulo saw the flash of pain in his eyes. Pain and resentment.

  “It’s not that she doesn’t want kids,” he said in a low voice. “It’s that she can’t have any.”

  Paulo and Donovan traded meaningful glances. Each understood the significance of Colston’s admission, the new questions it raised. Would the attorney have killed Maribel if he’d known she was carrying the only child he might ever have? Or would he have killed her to prevent his wife from learning about the pregnancy? How devastated would Abby Colston have been to discover that while she couldn’t give her husband any children, another woman had?