Knowing he wanted her made her want him all the more. “Are you sure you don’t have just one...”
“There’s an all-night drugstore on Whitesburg.” Luther sighed against her neck. “I’ll withdraw from the case Monday morning, bright and early.”
“What are you waiting for—”
A knock interrupted them. They parted slowly, and Luther headed for the door.
“It’s probably Syd,” Cleo said. “Sometimes she stops by when she hears me come home.”
“Ask who it is,” Luther demanded, as they reached the door.
Cleo obeyed, and Syd’s cheerful voice called out a late-night greeting.
A slightly disheveled Luther opened the door; Syd smiled when she laid eyes on him. She didn’t look at all surprised to see him here.
“This was delivered for you this afternoon,” Syd said, offering a long white florist’s box. “I found them sitting on the porch when I got home.”
Luther cursed and took the box from Syd, and the redhead’s smile faded. “I’m guessing this means they aren’t from you?”
Cleo said she’d see Syd in the morning, and Luther closed the door.
More red roses, she imagined. Luther set the box down on the foyer floor, and very carefully lifted the lid, trying not to add any more fingerprints.
When Cleo saw what was inside, she shuddered. Not red roses this time, but white. A dozen, like always. The plain card rested on top, and Luther read it aloud without touching the evidence.
“How could you do this to me?”
“Do what?” Cleo asked softly.
“I think he’s talking about me.”
Cleo dropped down to look more closely at the perfect blooms. “Red roses mean love,” she said.
Luther nodded as he reached for his cell phone to make a call.
“White means death.”
Luther’s eyes snapped up to meet hers above the box of flowers. “You don’t know that.”
She nodded quickly. “Mother’s Day, if your mother is alive you wear red, if she’s dead you wear white.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“People send white roses to funerals, Luther.”
“People send all kinds of flowers to funerals,” he said sensibly.
“If it doesn’t mean anything, why change to white after all this time?”
He ended the cell phone call before he got an answer, moved the box of white roses aside without touching a flat surface on the box, and took her hand in his. Gripping her shaking hand firmly, he helped her to her feet.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Luther assured her, as if he knew instinctively that that was her greatest fear.
Cleo rested her face against his chest and took a deep breath. “Good.”
His hands settled in her hair, soft and easy. “You need twenty-four-hour protection.”
She nodded silently.
“I’m it,” he said. “There’s no way I can step down now and hand this case over to someone else.”
Something deep inside her slackened, as if a painful knot had come loose. She knew better than to trust anyone. She knew better than to put her faith in a man. But she was putting her faith in Luther, and it felt right. She wrapped her arms around him and held on tight.
Chapter Eight
Luther had been tempted to cancel lunch with Ray and Grace, but by mid-morning it was clear that he and Cleo both needed to get out of her house. The walls were closing in. The tension between them wasn’t easing, it was gradually ratcheting up to a new level.
At least they had coffee, which was a good thing since he hadn’t been able to sleep more than two hours on Cleo’s couch last night.
He’d turned the flower box over to the crime scene techs, but he was pretty sure nothing would come of it. Just as nothing had come of their dusting of her office. Cleo had been right when she’d said there would be numerous prints there. Everyone who worked at her club or ever had worked there had left their mark. It was easy to distinguish the newer prints, of course, but the only prints on the drawer from which the notes had been stolen were Cleo’s.
On the way to Ray’s, they’d stopped by his apartment so he could change and collect some clothes and toiletries, enough for a few days. This detail wasn’t official, and if anyone found out he was moving in...
Since it was his day off, in a way, he dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, and clipped his gun and badge to his belt. Cleo had looked him over and then commented that she’d have to do a little more shopping for casual clothes. He could only imagine.
She’d dressed more casually herself today. He was accustomed to seeing her dressed for the stage, or for relaxing at home. Her emerald-green pants and matching blouse were classy and surely expensive, and showed off her figure in a more subtle way than the dresses she wore to perform in. A gold clip held her wild black curls back on one side, her makeup was more understated than usual. The look suited her.
Grace and Ray opened the door together, both of them obviously curious about the woman Luther had been able to procure on his own. Grace was particularly curious, grinning widely and raking her eyes from Cleo’s head to her toes. Ray seemed more amused than anything else.
“You look like you’re about to pop,” Luther said as they stepped into the house.
“Luther!” Cleo said, admonishing him.
“Well, she does. When are you due?”
“Any day,” Ray said with a wide grin. “She’s already started dilating, and if her water breaks...”
“Whoa,” Luther said, holding up a hand to silence his ex-partner. “More than I need to know. Just tell me when the kid is here, and if it’s a boy or a girl. Maybe a name. I don’t need specifics on how it gets here.”
“Dinner will be another twenty minutes or so,” Grace said, waddling away and leading them into the living room. “It’s a casserole, which is about all I can manage these days. Mix everything up, put it in the oven and wait.”
“We shouldn’t be here,” Cleo said kindly. “You should be resting, not cooking for company.”
Grace—who was, Luther had to admit, radiant these days—glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “It’s no trouble. Besides, dessert was easy. Krispy Kremes.”
Cleo laughed, already at ease with Grace. He could easily see them being friends, as different as they were. They each had a warmth about them, something intangible and soft… and dangerous.
“We can sit and talk until the casserole is ready.” Grace very carefully lowered herself into a fat chair near the window. Since it sat a little bit higher than the couch and the only other chair in the room, he imagined it was her favorite place to sit these days. She settled in with a sigh.
Ray took the other chair, leaving the couch for Luther and Cleo. Luther stared at Grace’s stomach as he sat beside Cleo. “Are you sure you’re not having twins or triplets or something? You’re huge.”
Cleo laughed, but she slapped him on the arm and said, “Luther!” again, in that familiar, chastising tone.
“That’s okay,” Grace said, smiling. “He’s right, and he’s a good enough friend to tell me the truth.”
“Which is why he’s here,” Ray added in a cautious tone that set Luther’s nerves on edge.
They wanted something. Something big. “What does that mean?”
Grace and Ray exchanged a look, one of those meaningful glances that made it seem they were reading each other’s minds.
“You ask,” Grace finally said.
Ray didn’t hesitate. “Luther, we want you to be godfather to the baby.”
“That’s so sweet,” Cleo exclaimed.
“Sweet,” Luther grumbled, knowing that he was being put on the spot. How could he say no? “Doesn’t that mean that if anything happens to you two...”
“Yes,” Grace said. “We can’t agree on anyone else. We don’t trust anyone else with our child.”
Trust again. How did he do this to himself? “Can I think it over?” Maybe if he thought l
ong enough he’d be able to come up with an acceptable way to refuse.
“Sure you can,” Grace said, her happiness only slightly dimmed by his obvious reluctance.
Ray changed the subject. “Where did you two meet?”
“Cleo’s club,” Luther said. “She’s a singer.”
Ray lifted his eyebrows slightly. “A singer? Really. Ever sing any Lyle Lovett songs?”
“Not usually,” she said. “But if you two ever drop by the club, I’ll see what I can do.”
“I can’t possibly go anywhere until after the baby is born,” Grace said. “I can’t even go to the grocery store anymore without my ankles swelling.”
“We’ll go hear Cleo after the baby is born,” Ray said.
“We’ll need a babysitter,” Grace said skeptically.
Ray grinned. “Luther can babysit.”
Enough was enough. “Luther cannot babysit,” Luther said testily. “Luther doesn’t change diapers, coo, or wipe up spit.”
Grace and Ray both laughed, but Cleo maintained her composure. “You do coo,” she said meaningfully. “On occasion.”
He looked at her, saw the laughter in her golden eyes. “I do not.”
“You coo at Rambo.”
“I do not.”
“Who’s Rambo?” Grace asked.
Cleo looked at the impossibly large pregnant woman and answered, “My dog. She loves Malone because he scratches behind her ears. And coos.”
Luther leaned closer to Cleo. “I do not coo,” he whispered.
“Sorry, tough guy,” she answered. “You’ve been found out.”
Cleo rolled up her sleeves and rinsed dirty dishes, while Grace sat behind her, perched on a kitchen chair.
“You shouldn’t be doing that,” the pregnant woman protested. “Ray can load the dishwasher later.”
“I don’t mind,” Cleo said. “Besides, I think Ray and Luther wanted to talk alone.”
“Guy stuff,” Grace agreed.
Luther and Ray were in the living room talking about the case. Her case. They kept their voices low, and Luther paced a lot. When she’d gone in there to collect a couple of dirty glasses, she’d seen him stalk to the window and run his fingers through his hair in apparent exasperation. They hadn’t said a word until she left the room. Oddly enough, she didn’t mind. She understood the distinction, the smudged line between what was happening between her and Luther, and what was going on with the case.
Cleo ran water over a dirty plate and placed it in the dishwasher. How could Luther be so jaded, when he had friends like Ray and Grace? They loved one another so much that it was clear to see; they had a nice home, a baby on the way… all the things every woman dreamed of.
Everyone but her, Cleo thought, the knowledge stealing a bit of the warmth from her heart. She simply wasn’t cut out for domestic bliss. She had a few good friends and her nightclub, and she didn’t need anything else. She could sing and run her place until she was old and gray, without ever again suffering from a broken heart.
All of a sudden she pictured herself, white-haired and wrinkled, sitting on stage and singing ‘My Funny Valentine.’ Alone still, heart unbroken but also un-mended.
“Luther is a good guy,” Grace said quietly, as if she were afraid the men in the next room might hear.
“He is.”
“But he’s also very tenderhearted,” she continued. “You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but he’s one of those men who would go to the ends of the earth for a friend.”
Cleo loaded the last of the dishes, closed the dishwasher and turned to face Grace as she wiped her hands on a yellow-and-white checked dish towel. “I know that, too.”
The expression on Grace’s face was wary. “I don’t mean to pry, but Luther’s never brought a woman to our house before. I’ve tried to fix him up a hundred times, but his relationships with women never last long. And I’ve never seen him...” She stalled mid-sentence and blushed.
“Never seen him what?” Cleo prodded.
“I’ve never seen him look at another woman the way he looks at you.”
She didn’t want to know that. It was easier to believe that she was one of a thousand women, that she and Luther could have their time together and then part without anyone getting hurt.
“I really shouldn’t say that,” Grace said quickly. “It’s none of my business. But...”
“You don’t want Luther to get hurt,” Cleo finished for her. “And you know damn well I’m not the right kind of woman to—”
“No,” Grace said sharply. “Well, yes to the part about him not getting hurt. But I like you. I think you could be good for him.”
Cleo knew she wasn’t good for anyone, least of all someone like Luther. “We’re just friends,” she said.
Just friends. Last night, if Syd hadn’t shown up with those flowers, they’d be lovers by now. She’d wanted it, he’d wanted it. But it wasn’t right. The energy that danced between them was sexual, but it had nothing to do with love. It was sensuous, not lasting. But, oh, if she fell for Luther any harder than she already had, it was going to kill her when he left.
Luther muttered a curse as he lined up the drill. He wasn’t a handyman; he’d never actually used this drill.
The door next to Cleo’s opened, and a red head peeked out. “What are you doing?”
“Putting in a security viewer,” he said brusquely.
“A what?”
“A peephole,” he amended.
“Oh,” Syd said as she stepped onto their shared porch. “That’s nice.” She smiled as if she knew an amusing secret. “Getting serious, huh?”
“What?”
“Whenever a man shows up with tools, things have to be getting serious, right?”
The word serious in conjunction with any woman made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “I’m just installing a peephole so Cleo can see who’s at the door before she opens it.”
“That’s very sweet,” Syd said, not moving on or knocking on Cleo’s door, but taking up residence on the porch.
“No, it’s not,” he said. “It’s practical. Every woman should have a peephole in her door. This is just an extension of my duties as a police officer.”
“Great!” she said cheerily. “I don’t have one, either.”
He glanced at her closed door. “So I see.” Again, he lined up the drill.
“What are you doing?” Syd asked.
Luther took a deep, calming breath. “I’m installing a—”
“No, I mean, why there?”
“Eye level,” he said.
“That’s your eye level, Detective Malone. If you put the peephole there you’re going to have to get Cleo a step stool to keep by the door.”
She was right. It was a detail he wouldn’t have normally overlooked, but Cleo had his insides twisted in knots, his mind in a muddle. He wanted her, and he couldn’t have her. Well, he shouldn’t have her.
He repositioned the drill at a level that would suit Cleo. “Thank you,” he said grudgingly.
“You’re welcome.” The moment of silence that followed her response was too short. “On a femininity scale of one to ten, with Shania Twain in leopard skin being a ten, where would you put Cleo?”
With a disgusted sigh, Luther dropped the hand holding the drill and turned to face Syd. “What?”
“On a femininity scale of one to ten, with—”
“I heard you,” he said. “I just can’t believe I heard you correctly.”
“She’s my friend,” Syd said, her smile fading. “I don’t want to see her hurt by someone who doesn’t properly appreciate her.”
“It’s not like that. This is just business.”
She scrunched up her nose. “That might be true, but I don’t exactly buy it. See, I know Cleo better than anyone. She’s tough, right? She’s sassy and confident and can handle anything. But the truth of the matter is, Detective, she’s not so tough, and she can’t handle everything that comes along by herself the way sh
e insists she can.”
“I get that.”
“Good,” she said, pleased with his response. “Now, on a scale of one to ten, with—”
“Fifteen,” he said as he turned around and repositioned the drill, making sure the viewer would be at Cleo’s eye level.
For some reason, Syd laughed.
She shouldn’t be sexy in baggy flannel pants and an even baggier T-shirt. She shouldn’t be irresistible with her hair piled on her head and her face scrubbed clean of makeup. She should be ordinary.
Cleo was definitely not ordinary.
He’d been fascinated by the woman he’d met at the club, the sexier-than-any-woman-had-a-right-to-be, smart-mouthed vixen who captured hearts with a wicked glance and her siren’s song. But this woman… this woman was extraordinary.
There was a light in her eyes, a softness to her mouth, a seduction in the very way she breathed. Man, he had it bad. All night, he’d looked at her and fantasized about what it would be like when they finally went to bed together. He tried not to, but he couldn’t help himself. Cleo had crawled beneath his skin and he couldn’t shake her. Hell, he didn’t want to shake her.
She sat on the floor with Rambo’s head in her lap, pretending to watch a show on television while she stroked the dog’s fur. Neither of them had said a word for over an hour. The television played at a low volume—an old movie she’d chosen—and the clock on the end table ticked softly. Tick. Tick. Tick. Occasionally Rambo, who was mad at Luther because he’d ignored the request to join them on the floor as he had a few days ago, occasionally made a contented noise.
There was only one way to handle this. He’d withdraw from this case in the morning, take his damn vacation, and spend it right here. He’d throw caution to the wind and tell Cleo that she was an extraordinary woman who’d turned him inside out.
Handing her case over to someone else wouldn’t be easy, but he’d be here through it all. If she’d let him.
Someone had to watch over her, and no one else seemed to be taking the white roses as a threat. Not even Russell. No one else in the department could take proper care of her. No one else in the world.
CAPTURING CLEO Page 10