Like No One Else

by Maureen Smith

  Enveloped in a private, sensual cocoon of heat and steam, Paulo let himself pretend that they were the only two people in the world, that there were no sadistic killers lurking in the shadows, waiting for the opportunity to strike.

  He let everything else drift out of his consciousness so he could savor being inside her.

  He let himself go with a triumphant shout, his hips pulsing rhythmically against her as he emptied himself into her throbbing womb.

  And moments later, as they lay shuddering in each other’s arms beneath the bedcovers, he let himself hold her, stroke her, whisper tender, nonsensical words to her.

  Because he knew it was only a matter of time before reality would come crashing down on both of them.

  And what happened after that would be beyond their control.

  Two hours later, Paulo swung into the parking lot of a small brick Baptist church with stained-glass windows and a prominent sign in the yard announcing the Sunday worship times and the theme of tomorrow’s sermon: “Giving Thanks in the Season of Thanksgiving.”

  An attractive, thirty-something man was stepping out of the only car in the deserted parking lot. Paulo parked beside the shiny black Nissan Altima and climbed out of his cruiser. As he sauntered toward the other man, he noted his split lip and the bruised skin around his left eye, and smiled inwardly at Tommie’s handiwork.

  “Roland Jackson?”

  The man nodded, eyeing him suspiciously. “Who’s asking?”

  Paulo flashed his badge. “Detective Sanchez. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  Jackson frowned. “About what?”

  “Tommie Purnell.”

  Jackson didn’t blink. “What about her?”

  “I understand you paid her a visit on Thursday.”

  “Yes, I did.” An incredulous look swept across Jackson’s face. “Wait a minute. Don’t tell me she called the cops just because I went to see her?”

  “No,” Paulo said evenly, “but maybe she should have.”

  Jackson scowled. “What are you talking about? She had no reason to call the police. I didn’t do anything to her.”

  “No?”

  Jackson glared at him. “I don’t know what she told you, but all I did was talk to her. If anything, I should be filing assault charges against her.”

  “For that?” Paulo said, hitching his chin toward the man’s split lip. He snorted derisively, shaking his head. “You’d get laughed out of the police station.”

  Jackson’s face reddened. “I don’t have time for this,” he snapped. “I have a ministry meeting to prepare for—”

  “How long have you been living in Houston?” Paulo asked abruptly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I didn’t stutter.” Paulo’s voice was remarkably calm, considering that he wanted to smash his fist into Jackson’s face. He’d been trying to keep a tight rein on his temper since last night, when Tommie told him what her old boyfriend and his buddy had done to her four years ago. Paulo had been furious, devastated that she’d had to go through such a painful ordeal at the hands of someone she’d trusted. He’d wanted blood. Although he’d had an entire night to cool off, the rage, along with the frustration and injustice he’d felt, had not abated. They were like fire under his skin, ready to ignite at any moment.

  He’d promised Tommie he wouldn’t do anything stupid. He intended to keep that promise—or so he’d told himself as he set out for Roland Jackson’s apartment that morning. Jackson was just leaving when he arrived, so Paulo had followed him across town to the small Baptist church. As he did, he’d been struck by a memory of being tailgated one night by a black Nissan Altima—just like the one he was following.

  When they reached the church and Paulo saw the empty parking lot, he’d felt a dark glimmer of satisfaction. Like a feral animal who knows it has successfully cornered its prey.

  “I don’t see how it’s any of your business how long I’ve been living in Houston,” Jackson said hotly. “I haven’t broken any laws.”

  “Did you follow Tommie here?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” Paulo’s voice was menacingly soft as he took a step forward. “Did you move here to harass her?”

  “No!”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You can believe whatever you want, Detective,” Jackson said archly. “I’m a deacon at this church, a respected member of the community, a God-fearing man.”

  “Is that right?” Paulo mocked, advancing another step. “Then you won’t lie to me when I ask you whether you moved to Houston after Tommie did.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Wrong answer, preacher. According to your apartment lease, you moved here exactly one week after Tommie did. Are you telling me that’s just a coincidence?”

  “It must be,” Jackson insisted, stepping backward. “I didn’t even know Tommie lived here until recently, when one of the other deacons happened to mention during a meeting that she worked part-time at a local dance studio. When I asked her the name of the studio, that’s when I found out it belonged to Tommie.”

  Paulo smirked. “How convenient.”

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways. At least to those who don’t know Him.” A superior smile curved Jackson’s mouth. “If you’re not walking in God’s perfect will, Detective, then you can’t begin to know or understand why things happen the way they do. God led me to Houston for a reason. For all you know, He may have preordained Tommie to be my wife.”

  Paulo’s eyes narrowed. “Like hell.”

  “So says the unbeliever.”

  Paulo got in his face, snarling contemptuously, “Do you really think she would take you back after what you did to her, you disgusting piece of shit? Are you that delusional?”

  Jackson’s face flushed with anger. He staggered back a step, glaring reproachfully at Paulo. “You’re way out of line here, Detective,” he warned. “You didn’t come here in an official capacity. This is harassment, bordering on police brutality. If you don’t leave the premises right now I’ll—”

  “You’ll do what?” Paulo taunted, sneering. “Call the cops? Be my fucking guest.”

  Jackson stared at him in stunned disbelief. And then suddenly, without warning, a wide, knowing grin swept across his face. “She’s still got it,” he marveled, shaking his head. “After all these years, she’s still got the magic touch. The Tommie-mojo.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Paulo said through gritted teeth.

  Jackson laughed, giving him an almost pitying look. “I don’t know you from Adam, but I’m sure you’re a decent man. A good cop. Yet here you are, about to throw away your career over some woman you hardly even know. But it’s not your fault, man. You’ve been put under a spell. You’ve fallen victim to the Tommie-mojo. The way she walks, the way she talks, the way she smiles. She could step into a room, and a blind man would sit up and take notice. When we were dating I couldn’t keep any friends because they all wanted to sleep with her. Even my seventy-five-year-old grandfather couldn’t keep his eyes off her at summer cookouts. I’ve known some beautiful women in my life, but none of them had the Tommie-mojo. So believe me, Detective, I sympathize with what you’re going through. But take heart. You weren’t the first casualty, and you definitely won’t be the last.”

  When he’d finished speaking, Paulo raked him with a look of scathing contempt. “You’re full of shit, Jackson. I’ve seen your type before, and it’s always the same garbage. Blame the victim. It’s the child’s fault for being so irresistible her father couldn’t keep his filthy hands to himself. It’s the high school cheerleader’s fault for being at the wrong place at the wrong time when some pervert snatched her off the street in broad daylight. It’s the beautiful woman’s fault her pathetic loser of a boyfriend couldn’t accept the fact that she didn’t want him anymore. She must be some sort of evil sorceress who cast a spell on him, causing him to become so obsessed with her that he’d uproot himself and follow her
to another city just to stalk her. Yeah, I know your type, you twisted son of a bitch. The one and only difference between you and a convicted felon is that you got away with your crime.

  “But I’m watching you, preacher,” Paulo said, lowering his voice to a silky, dangerous caress. “I know where you live, where you work, where you pray. I’m watching you, and the first wrong move you make, I’m coming down on your ass like fire and brimstone.”

  Jackson’s face reddened with anger and humiliation. “You won’t get away with harassing me like this, Sanchez. You’re a dirty cop.”

  “No dirtier than you, Deacon.” Paulo reached out, patted his cheek. “Don’t let me keep you any longer from your meeting. I’ve strayed a bit from my Catholic roots, but I still understand and appreciate the importance of doing the Lord’s work.”

  As he turned and sauntered toward his cruiser, Jackson jeered, “How does it feel to have sloppy seconds?”

  Paulo chuckled, shaking his head. “Come on, man, you can do better than that. No man in his right mind would think of Tommie Purnell as sloppy seconds.”

  “Sloppy thirds, then. Or sloppy fourths or fifths.” Jackson sneered at him over the roof of the police cruiser. “She’s been around quite a bit, Detective.”

  “So have I.” A narrow grin cut across Paulo’s face. “So I guess that makes us soul mates.”

  Jackson’s face hardened with hatred. “If you think she’s gonna stay with you, think again. She’s the love ’em and leave ’em type. I was never good enough for her. No way in hell is she settling down with some wetback cop. You don’t stand a chance with her, mi amigo.”

  “Maybe not, but I’ll take my chances over yours any day of the week.”

  “Good luck then, ’cause you’re gonna need it.” A malicious gleam filled Jackson’s eyes. “Oh, and if you ever find yourself looking for ways to spice up your love life, here’s a little suggestion. Invite one of your friends over. She’s really into that.”

  Paulo went very still. “What did you just say?”

  Jackson smiled, knowing he’d finally scored a point. “Our girl is into threesomes. Oh, she might protest a little at first. She might even pretend like she’s not enjoying it. But it’s all just an act, believe me. If you know anything about Tommie—”

  Paulo didn’t remember moving.

  One moment he was standing beside the cruiser, his hand on the door handle. A moment later he was charging Jackson, fueled with lethal rage as he slammed his fist into the man’s face. Jackson staggered backward, swung blindly, and caught a vicious blow to the stomach and a hard uppercut that snapped his head back. Blood gushed from his nose and mouth as he went down like a felled tree, howling in agony.

  As Paulo stood over him, contemplating whether to finish him off, he didn’t notice that another vehicle had pulled into the parking lot. He didn’t hear the car door slam, didn’t hear the brisk approach of footsteps. Didn’t hear anything until a woman’s familiar voice said, “Oh, Lord. Not again.”

  Only then did Paulo lift his head.

  As the scarlet haze slowly dissipated from his brain, he realized that the newcomer was Tommie’s pianist, Hazel Calhoun. She was frowning and shaking her head at him, hands planted on her hips in a manner that reminded him of the times his grandmother Maria had scolded him for sneaking into her kitchen and swiping churros that were reserved for the church fund-raiser.

  Then, as now, he had the grace to look sheepish. “Afternoon, Mrs. Calhoun,” he murmured.

  “Paulo Sanchez, what on earth are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “I came to have a talk with Deacon Jackson.”

  “Hmmph. Looks like you did a lot more than talk,” she said, glancing pointedly at the semiconscious man curled into the fetal position on the ground.

  Jackson groaned. “Sister Calhoun, call the police,” he mumbled weakly. “This officer…assaulted me. I…want to…press charges.”

  “Oh dear.” Hazel looked at Paulo, concern etching lines into her forehead. “Did she tell you what happened?”

  Paulo nodded, his jaw clenched.

  “Terrible thing he did to her. Just shameful.” Her dark eyes misted and her nostrils flared. “I can’t believe she’s been keeping it bottled up all this time. She tries to be so tough and nonchalant, but deep down inside she’s just a hurt, frightened little girl.”

  “I know,” Paulo murmured. “But she’s strong, too. Stronger than she realizes.”

  Hazel’s gaze softened on his face. “And she needs a strong man by her side. Someone she can trust. Someone who can take care of her, help heal those wounds.” She laid a gentle hand against his cheek. “I think you can be that man, Paulo Sanchez. I saw it in your eyes the first time I met you. The two of you can be so good for each other.”

  Jackson groaned again. “Oh dear.” Hazel shot a worried glance at Paulo. “You’d better get out of here before the other deacons show up for the meeting. Thank God they’re always late, or they would have been here by now.” Before Paulo could protest, she began ushering him toward his cruiser as if he were a late congregant being escorted to a pew in church. “Don’t worry about Deacon Jackson. I’ll deal with him. Just between you and me, I’ve been wanting to knock him out myself ever since I found out what he did to Tomasina. Lord forgive me, something just never seemed right about him. It’s the eyes. The eyes are the window to the soul, and his are just empty. Oh, let me give you something.”

  She opened the back door of her car, which she’d parked beside the cruiser, and pulled out a covered cake dish. “Tomasina told me how much you enjoyed my peach cobbler,” she said almost shyly. “I thought you might like to try my sour cream carrot cake.”

  Touched by her generosity, Paulo asked, “Didn’t you bring it for today’s meeting?”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “It was Deacon Jackson’s turn to bring something, but of course he asked me to do it for him. Hmmph. Showing up empty-handed to a meeting is the least of his problems right now.”

  As Paulo accepted the cake she frowned at his bleeding knuckles, then tsk-tsked after examining them for a moment. “You shouldn’t need any stitches, but you’d better soak your hand in some ice and have Tomasina kiss it when you get back to the loft.”

  Paulo arched an amused brow. “How’d you know I was going there?”

  Hazel gave him a soft, intuitive smile. “After you showed up on Monday, I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away.”

  Chapter 22

  Sunday, November 15

  “I’m so nervous,” Tommie muttered, crossing and uncrossing her legs as she stared out the passenger window of Paulo’s Dodge Durango. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

  Paulo chuckled. “Relax. It’s just dinner.”

  “It’s not just dinner,” she corrected, turning to face him. “It’s dinner with your family.”

  “Okay, then. It’s just my family.”

  “Easy for you to say. It’s your family!”

  Paulo laughed, torn between exasperation and amusement. “Ay Dios! What are you so nervous about, woman?”

  “Well, gee, let me think. The man I’ve been dating less than a week is taking me to meet his family, who all happen to be wealthy, successful lawyers with degrees from Ivy League universities and powerful connections that reach to the White House.” She shrugged. “You’re right. Nothing to be nervous about.”

  Amused, Paulo shook his head at her. “Not that it matters,” he said dryly, “but you’re not exactly the girl from the wrong side of the tracks. Your father is a renowned archaeologist, your mother was the CEO of a major pharmaceutical company before she retired, and they live in a million-dollar Victorian. So tell me again why you’re so nervous about meeting my cousins?”

  Tommie groaned, leaning back against the headrest and closing her eyes. “They’re going to hate me. I just know it.”

  “No, they’re not.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “No, they’re not,” Paulo
insisted. “They’re going to love you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because they’re smart, down-to-earth people who know a good thing when they see it. And you, Miss Purnell, are definitely a good thing.”

  Turning her head, Tommie smiled gratefully at him. “You’re so sweet. I know I’m driving you crazy with all my hand wringing.”

  “Goodness, no,” he said, widening his eyes as if the thought had never occurred to him.

  “Ha, ha. Very funny.” Grinning, she reached over and threaded her fingers through his thick, freshly trimmed hair. “Thank you for not getting too much cut off when you went to the barbershop this afternoon. I’ve gotten used to your wild, unruly hair. I’ve grown to love it.” And the rest of you, too, she added silently.

  Paulo slanted her a soft look. “Why do you think I only asked for a trim?”

  Tommie stared at him. “You did that…for me?”

  “Of course.” His mouth curved in a wicked grin. “What else are you going to pull when you’re having one of those head-banging orgasms?”

  Tommie laughed, blushing sheepishly. “Good point.”

  As Paulo returned his attention to the road, she admired his darkly handsome appearance. Even with the neatly trimmed hair and a fresh shave, he still managed to look rakish and primitively male in an open-necked black shirt, a well-cut black blazer, and black trousers. When her gaze strayed to his bandaged hand on the steering wheel, her smile faded.

  She hadn’t known what to think when he returned to the loft yesterday afternoon, a cake dish tucked under one arm and his right hand wrapped in gauze. When she asked him what had happened, he told her he’d cut his hand on a sharp object while he was at his apartment packing some clothes. Tommie hadn’t believed him. Remembering that he’d intended to speak to Roland while he was out, she’d asked him outright whether he’d gotten into a fight with her ex-boyfriend. He’d flatly denied it, saying that Roland wasn’t at the church when he arrived, which was where he’d run into Mrs. Calhoun. Still skeptical, Tommie had called her pianist to thank her for the carrot cake. She, too, had claimed ignorance of any altercation between Paulo and Roland. Deciding that Mrs. Calhoun wouldn’t lie to her, Tommie had let the matter go, though doubt lingered in the back of her mind.