“I have a reputation to uphold, Malone,” she teased. “I can’t be seen with a man who wears four-dollar polyester ties.”
“I have a seven-dollar tie at home.”
“Humor me,” she said as she straightened his collar around the new tie.
He stood stock-still while she knotted the tie. Her fingers skimmed his chest, the back of her hand sensed the heat beneath that plain white shirt. Suddenly what she was doing seemed terribly intimate, not at all for show. Her heart started to beat too fast. Her breath caught in her throat. As she finished with the new tie, she patted it softly.
“See there?” she said, doing her best to sound nonchalant. “That’s much better.”
The jukebox was playing. For most of the night someone had been punching in remakes of the old tunes, the stuff she sang these days. But the jukebox carried an eclectic selection, and while she stood there patting Luther’s new tie, an old, slow, country song started playing.
“Dance,” she said, taking Luther’s hand and dragging him to the dance floor.
“I don’t—” he protested.
“You can learn,” she said, stopping at the edge of the dance floor. Two other couples danced, huddled together and oblivious to those around them.
She stared at his chest. “It’s not difficult, Malone,” she said. Her arms came up. So did his. “Dancing is like breathing. You feel it, deep inside. You don’t think about each step, you don’t count in time with the music. You just let the music seep inside you, and you move.”
The hand he enfolded over hers was warm and firm, a man’s strong and tender hand. Her other hand rested on his shoulder, his arm snaked around her waist and he pulled her close. Very, very close.
He took a deep breath and took the first step. A very small, cautious step. Cleo let her head fall against his shoulder, she rested her cheek against the warm fabric of his dark blue suit. Her eyes drifted closed. She did as she’d instructed him to do: she let the music wash over her. It washed away everything. Jack. Thea. The funeral.
After a few cautious steps, Luther relaxed. “This isn’t so bad,” he muttered.
Cleo smiled. “Told you so.” She loved the way he smelled, the way his arms were firm and still tender. She loved the way his warmth wrapped around her. She didn’t get this close, not anymore. She didn’t let anyone hold her this way. But for a while, she wanted to pretend that it wasn’t pretend.
“What are you doing Sunday?” Luther asked.
“The club is closed on Sunday. I usually sleep late, take Rambo to the park, and sometimes Syd and I will go out to eat.”
“Would you do me a favor?” he asked carefully, sounding almost sheepish.
“If I can.”
He sighed, and she felt it. Oh yeah, she felt it.
“My ex-partner and his wife have invited me to Sunday dinner.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she said, feeling a little disappointed. “You don’t have to watch over me all the time.”
“I was wondering if you’d go with me.”
Cleo lifted her head and looked up at Luther. He stared down at her with those dark brown eyes that were sad and deep and sexy, all at the same time. “If you want me to.”
“Grace is always trying to fix me up,” he grumbled. “It’s like a mission with her, to see me settled down. When Ray called this afternoon I told him I’d be there, but that I’d bring my own date, thank you very much.”
“A date,” she repeated.
“If anyone’s watching closely, it’ll look strange if I desert you over the weekend and meet someone else at Ray’s for Sunday dinner.”
They always had to keep in mind how things might look. She’d almost forgotten that.
“Besides,” he added with a smile, “if Grace thinks I’ve managed to snag my own woman, maybe she’ll lay off for a while.”
Cleo rested her head against Luther’s chest so he wouldn’t see her face. Why didn’t he have his own woman? Luther Malone probably had a long string of females, never letting anyone get too close, never caring enough to make a commitment.
“Still willing?” he asked.
She should refuse. Why should she spend Sunday, her only day off, pretending to be in a relationship with Luther so his friends would get off his back? All she had to do was tell him she’d rather have peanut butter sandwiches with Syd and Rambo than sit down to a meal with him and his friends and continue to pretend...
“Sure,” she whispered.
The music came to an end, and they stopped. Cleo lifted her head, Luther looked down.
“Maybe I could learn how to dance, after all,” he said.
“You’re off to a good start.”
He stared at her mouth, his eyes darkened, and he didn’t let go. When he moved his mouth toward hers, she knew she should back away before it was too late. She didn’t move.
Again, he kissed her. Soft, sweet, his mouth lingered over hers. The music, a faster tune, replaced the slow country song, and still Luther kissed her. She kissed him back. How could she not?
His hand climbed to tangle in the fall of hair at her back. Her hand clenched the fabric of his jacket sleeve. She felt this kiss the way she felt the music. Down deep. It was as basic and primal and necessary as breathing.
His lips parted, and he very subtly slipped his tongue between her lips. Testing. Arousing. Can’t dance and can’t kiss. Had she really said that to him?
Finally he broke the kiss, drawing slowly away, leaving his hand enmeshed in her curls. She didn’t release her hold on his jacket. Not yet. Her knees were too weak to let go.
“Guess I need a little work on that, too,” Luther said as he draped his arm around her and led her back to the bar.
Eric stood at the end of the bar, a scowl on his pretty face as he glared at Luther. Edgar just shook his head in what looked like fatherly dismay.
Luther chose a table at the back of the room, even though he was tempted to drag a chair up to the stage. He could watch the crowd well enough from the back, and that was why he was here. Right?
Cleo sat on stage, all great legs and womanly curves and tempting black curls. He could still feel her mouth on his; he could still feel the way she moved against him. Dancing was undeniably sexual, and it was only natural that he’d found himself turned on. But hell, the last thing he needed was to fantasize about Cleo Tanner any more than he already did.
Still, Cleo was a woman made for fantasies, he mused as he fingered his red tie.
No matter how large the crowd in her place, she mesmerized them all. The room was quiet as she sang, all eyes turned to her. After a while he quit studying the crowd and allowed himself to watch her, too. Yeah, she was definitely a fantasy woman.
She finished one bluesy number, and smiled as the crowd applauded. Her smile died when a drunk who sat on the opposite side of the room from Luther shouted out, “Jeremiah was a bullfrog!”
A few of the patrons at tables near the man tried to shush him.
“I’m tired of hearing that old crap. That’s my granny’s kind of music. I want to hear something snappy!”
Cleo, apparently unperturbed, looked down at the heckler and lifted her eyebrows. “First of all, ‘Jeremiah was a Bullfrog’ is not the title of any song.”
“Is, too,” the drunk argued, and then he began to sing. Off-key.
“If you’re going to request a song,” Cleo continued, “you could at least go to the trouble to find out what the title is.”
Edgar moved quietly around the room, heading for the heckler.
“You know,” the drunk said, enjoying all the attention that had been shifted to him. “You’re not even very good. I came in here looking for a few snappy tunes to make me feel better, and you’ve depressed the hell out of me! If you don’t know ‘Jeremiah was a Bullfrog,’ how about something fun like… like I wanna party all night and party every day. Something like that. I like that one.”
Cleo smiled down at the man. “You know, I don’t come to your
place of business and tell you how to do your job.”
The drunk scoffed.
She stared at the man with wide, innocent eyes. “I don’t stand over you and say, ‘The fries are done! The fries are done!”’
The crowd laughed, and the drunk stood up in disgust, pointing a wavering finger at the stage. “You’re a lousy singer. I shoulda gone somewhere else to get cheered up.” Instead of heading for the door, the drunk walked toward the stage.
He didn’t get there. Edgar grabbed one arm and Luther grabbed the other. When the drunk protested, Luther pulled back his jacket and showed the man his badge and gun. The sight very quickly took the fight out of him.
“Let’s go, buddy,” Edgar said gruffly.
“I didn’t mean it,” the drunk said pitifully. “I just wanted to hear ‘Jeremiah was a Bullfrog.’”
The three of them busted through the club doors and onto the sidewalk.
“I’m going home,” the drunk said, trying to reach for his pocket with the hand Edgar had immobilized. He didn’t seem to understand why he couldn’t reach his keys.
Luther pulled a twenty from his pocket and handed it to Edgar. “Put him in a cab and take his keys. He can reclaim them tomorrow, at Precinct B.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” the drunk said, trying very hard not to sound intoxicated and failing miserably.
“What’s your name?” Luther asked.
“Bob Smith,” the drunk said, with a wobble.
The door behind them opened and Russell stepped out, his favorite cocktail waitress in tow. “Everything okay out here?” he asked, reaching for a cigarette in his breast pocket.
“Everything’s fine.” Luther nodded once. Russell, who didn’t smoke, lit up a cigarette for him and for his new friend, Lizzy. They stepped a few feet down the sidewalk and talked in subdued voices.
Luther returned his attention to the drunk. “Okay, Mr. Smith, let’s see some ID.”
“All right,” he snapped. “My name is Willie Lee Webb. I didn’t do anything wrong. You can’t arrest me for not liking the songs that woman sang.”
Luther tightened his grip and lowered his voice. “I can arrest you on any number of charges, if I have a mind to. You want a list of charges, or do you want to go home like a good boy, before I change my mind and haul your ass in?”
“I’m going home,” he said grudgingly.
Luther left the surly drunk in Edgar’s capable hands. A cab was parked down the street, and at Edgar’s signal it pulled down to the front of the club.
Luther stepped back into the warm club, his eyes quickly landing on the woman on stage. She sang as if she didn’t have a care in the world, as if she hadn’t sparred with a heckler who’d insulted her and interrupted her show.
Usually Cleo kept her eyes above the crowd, but as he stepped to his table her gaze found him. It lingered there a moment longer than was proper, and then she tore it away.
Chapter Seven
Tonight Luther followed her in, rather than dropping her off and walking away. She wasn’t sure that was a good idea, but giving him the boot at the door didn’t seem like such a good idea, either.
“Does that happen often?” he asked as he closed the door behind him and bent to dutifully scratch Rambo’s head.
She immediately thought of the dance, the kiss. Never. “What are you talking about?” She kicked off her shoes.
“The heckler.”
She shook her head and walked toward the kitchen in her stocking feet. “No. Every now and then someone will wander in looking for a different kind of music or a different kind of atmosphere. Usually they just leave quietly. Every now and then...” She shrugged and took a glass from the cabinet.
Luther stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame and watching her closely. Too closely.
“You handled him well.”
“Guys like that don’t bother me.”
“What does?”
She watched the suddenly fascinating swirl of juice in her glass. You, Malone. You bother me. “Nothing,” she said, sounding like she meant it. “But the worst is when someone in the crowd recognizes me and asks me to sing ‘Come Morning.’”
“Why is that so bad?”
“Come on, Malone, you heard it,” she snapped. “It’s a stupid, heart-on-my-sleeve love song.”
“I liked it,” he said, with a shrug.
“Well, I don’t sing it anymore.” It reminded her of who she’d been and how she’d been hurt. Besides, there was no such thing as a love as powerful as the one she’d written about. Made her feel like such a sap... “Do you want some juice?”
Luther shook his head.
“I guess you have to be going.” Please.
Again, he shook his head. “I don’t know if anyone is watching or not. I haven’t seen any sign of surveillance, but I can’t be sure. It would be best if I stayed a little while.”
“Have a reputation to live up to, is that it?”
He smiled, not too widely. “Something like that.”
Suddenly thirsty, she finished her juice quickly. “Well, make yourself at home. I’m going to change into something comfortable.”
His eyebrows shot up, but she ignored him.
As she changed clothes, she told herself again that this was all for show. Malone didn’t really like her. No matter how he looked at her or danced or kissed, he didn’t want her. She was a job. A means to an end.
When she walked into the living room, warm and comfy in her flannel pants, baggy T-shirt, and thick socks, Luther grinned at her from the couch. “This is not what happens in the movies when a woman disappears into the bedroom to make herself more comfortable.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Malone, but this is not a movie.”
“Too bad.”
If it were a movie, it would be rated PG. She was almost sorry. Her entire life was PG, and until Malone had walked through her door she’d liked it that way.
She didn’t take her favorite chair but sat on the floor, legs crossed, and called Rambo to her. The traitorous dog cast a longing glance at Luther before padding over to join Cleo.
She raked her fingers through Rambo’s fur. “What you said at lunch the other day, about your mother and father. Was that true?”
The easy expression on Luther’s face died. “If we’re going to talk about my childhood, I’m going to need something stronger than orange juice to drink.”
“Sorry,” she said, with a crooked grin. “I didn’t mean to pry, I was just curious.”
He hesitated for a moment, and then answered. “Yeah, it was true.”
“What happened to your father?”
“It depends on what story I choose to believe.”
She raised her eyebrows in a silent question.
“My mother was never married,” he said. “When I got old enough to ask about my father, I got a different story every time. They were childhood sweethearts. He went off to Vietnam before he knew she was pregnant, and never came home.” He paused a second or two before adding, “He was Elvis.”
“Elvis?”
“Yep. She actually told me once, when an old song came on the radio, that Elvis got her pregnant.”
Cleo shook her head. “Didn’t she ever give you any other name?”
“Sure,” he said, trying to sound as if he didn’t care. “She said I was named for him, so for a long time I thought his name was Luther, too. But one night she mentioned him, and she called him Trent.”
Cleo relaxed, leaning her back against the chair, and looked up at Luther. “You never tried to find him.”
He shook his head. “Why should I?”
“What’s the father’s name on your birth certificate?”
He held up both hands, palms outward, patience rapidly disappearing. “What difference does it make?”
“Sorry,” she said, turning her eyes down to a relaxed Rambo.
She went back to petting Rambo, wishing Luther would leave. Praying he wouldn’t. Not yet.
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“Unknown,” he said quietly, when he finally spoke again. “When I asked her about that, she said she was afraid my father’s family would try to get custody if they knew about me. She said they weren’t bad people, they were just grieving the loss of their only child and capable of doing anything.”
“But she named you after him?”
“And moved away from the small town in Georgia where she grew up, when I was not yet a year old.”
Cleo tried to piece it all together. “Anything else?”
“I don’t think about it anymore,” he said sharply. “It’s ancient history.”
“You should think about it now,” she said. “What you’ve told me could all be true. Luther and Trent could both be right. She might’ve called him Trent sometimes, the way I call you Malone and you call your partner Russell. They might’ve been childhood sweethearts, and he might’ve gone off to war—”
“And Elvis?”
Cleo was not dissuaded. “Maybe they were listening to one of his songs when they made love. I don’t know, but—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s not important at all.”
Somehow, she thought it was important. He was a detective. He could’ve investigated his own past at any time. Why hadn’t he?
This conversation was much too personal. Time to change the subject. “Why do you carry such a small gun?”
He lifted his jacket by the lapel and glanced at the snub-nosed revolver in his shoulder holster. “Size doesn’t matter,” he said wryly. “It’s what you can do with what you have that counts.”
“You are so bad,” she said with a smile.
“Hey,” he said innocently, “I’m a great shot.”
“Have you ever actually shot anybody?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Ever been shot?”
Again, he shook his head.
“Good,” she said absently.
While Cleo stroked Rambo’s back, the dog lifted her head and looked up at Luther, her eyes pleading. And then she gave a short, low bark.
“What does she want?” he asked suspiciously.
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