by Karen Rose
He’d pushed too far and for the life of him didn’t know why he’d done so. He wasn’t normally so rude. “Which translates to mind your own business,” he said ruefully.
She flashed a quick grin. “You detectives are so smart.” She lifted a brow as she opened the next cases. “So you and your brother are just bachelors roughing it?”
“You’re nosy, too, just more subtle about it,” he said and her warm chuckle told him he was right. It had been a while since he’d done this tango, but he still remembered the steps. She was establishing boundaries, which meant she was interested, too. “Tino’s kind of in between jobs. He was a commercial artist at this fancy advertising company, but they started taking on clients and projects he couldn’t morally support. So he quit. He couldn’t afford his condo in Center City anymore, so…”
“So you opened your home,” she said quietly. “That was nice of you, Vito.”
Her tone soothed his anger, brushing it away as if it had never been. “He’s my brother. And my friend.” And to Vito, that had always been reason enough.
She considered it for a moment, then nodded. “Then he’s a fortunate man.”
He said no more, warmed by the compliment she’d paid him with such effortless sincerity and a week was suddenly too long. The yearning was far stronger now. He wanted to race, to grab what he needed before it disappeared. One day, Chick. At least sleep on it. That he could try.
For now Vito contented himself in watching her go about her work. Finally, she stood and dusted her hands on her jeans. “I’m done.”
His hands itched to touch so he kept them in his pockets, not even offering to help her with her coat. “Then let’s go get your bike.”
Her brows slightly bent in question as she sensed his shift of mood. But apparently she really wasn’t as nosy as he was. “I’m parked around the back.”
Sunday, January 14, 11:55
P.M.
Sophie cast a wary glance up at Vito Ciccotelli as she locked the door to the Humanities building and led him to the parking lot. He’d watched her with an intensity that made her so nervous that what should have been a fifteen-minute cleaning had taken twice that long.
He’d watched her as a large cat would watch his prey, cautious and intent. She wondered why. Why he was so cautious, that was. She knew why she was the prey. She was accustomed to that look from men. When they got that look they wanted sex.
Sometimes they got it. But only when she needed it, too.
Which hadn’t been too often and certainly not recently. For the last six months she’d either been working or sitting with Anna, and before… Well, it was hard finding someone on the road and she never dated men on a dig. It was a politically foolish thing to do, career suicide. She ought to know. It only took one foolish, stupid, idiotic…
And years later, there was still talk. Easy, needy… desperate. She’d spent the years since focused on her career, striving to remain as sexless as possible. But she was human. She’d had to find men who’d never come in contact with her colleagues and that took time. So she’d spent the better part of her life alone, damning that one regrettable moment when she’d believed the smooth lies of a man she’d thought was her soul mate.
Not all men were pigs, she knew. Her uncle Harry was a sterling example of a kind, good man. Something inside her wanted to believe Vito Ciccotelli was as well. He obviously cared about people, both living and dead. She respected that.
Pocketing her key, she looked up at him. He was staring straight ahead into the night, his mind clearly elsewhere. Alone, she thought. Right now he looked very alone.
Two alone people might find a way not to be. For a while, anyway. It was something to consider. “Are you all right?” she asked. “You look… grim.”
“I’m sorry. My mind wandered.” He looked around. “Let’s get your bike and put it in the bed of my truck, then I’ll drive you home.”
Sophie lifted her brows. “My bike in your truck? I don’t think so.” She started walking and he followed, his huff of frustration audible.
She stopped next to her bike, and in the light of the streetlamps she saw his face flatten in surprise. “This is yours?”
“It is.” She unhooked her helmet from the seat. “Why?”
Sophie was relieved to see his broodiness had disappeared, replaced by a spark of excitement as he took a slow walk around her motorcycle. “Katherine said you had a bike. I thought she meant a bicycle. This…” He ran a hand over the engine reverently. “This is a real beauty.”
“You ride?”
“Yeah. Harley Buell.”
Fast and sleek. “Oooh. Racer.”
He looked up from his inspection and grinned. “Scares my mom to death.”
His delight was infectious so she grinned back. “You bad boy, you.”
He took another walk around the bike, stopping at the front tire so that he faced her. “I’ve never seen this BMW model before.”
“It’s a classic-1974. I got it when I was working in Europe. Zero to a hundred in under ten seconds.” She laughed. “God, it’s a rush.”
He suddenly sobered. “I am a cop, Sophie. You don’t speed, do you?”
Her grin disappeared. She wasn’t sure if he was serious, but decided to err on the side of caution. “Oh, I meant a hundred kilometers an hour. That’s barely sixty.”
He continued to frown for another second, and then his lips began to twitch. “Nice save. I’ll have to remember that one.”
Her chuckle was shaky. “You do that, Vito.” Setting the helmet firmly on her head, she patted her pockets, then frowned. “Oh, shit.” Frantically, she dug in each pocket and came up with everything but what she was looking for. “My keys are gone.”
“You just put it in your pocket.”
“That was the university key. I keep it on a separate ring. I’m only here once a week.” She closed her eyes. “If I lost my keys at the dig, I mean crime scene…”
Vito’s hand closed over her shoulder and gently squeezed. “Calm down, Sophie. If you lost them at the crime scene, they’re in the very safest place. We’ll be covering every inch of that ground with a fine-tooth comb. We’ll find them.”
She made herself breathe. “That’s good, but I kind of need them now. My bike keys, my house keys… and the Albright. Goddammit, Ted the Third’s gonna shit a ring.”
“The Albright?”
“The museum where I work. Ted the Third’s my boss. We don’t get along very well.”
“Why not?”
“He plays at being The Historian,” she said, dropping her voice dramatically. “Makes me do these damn tours.” She scowled. “I have to dress up.”
“And you don’t like to dress up?”
“I am a historian, dammit. I don’t just play at it. At least I didn’t.”
“So why did you take the job?”
She sighed, frustrated. “I needed the money for my gran’s nursing home and Ted the First was an archeological legend.”
“Ted the First is your boss’s grandfather?”
“Yeah. His collection comprises ninety percent of our exhibits.” She shrugged. “I thought working with the Albright Foundation would be good for my career. Now I’m just biding my time until something else is available.” She smiled ruefully. “There aren’t many medieval castles in Philly. And my pride won’t let me flip burgers at McDonald’s.”
“So when was the last time you felt your keys in your hand?” he asked quietly.
She closed her eyes and saw her hand closing over her keys. She looked up to find him watching her with that steady gaze once again. “That’s very good. Redirect my panic and clear my mind. The last time I had my keys was when I first got in your truck. It’s what was jangling against the garden stakes. Maybe I dropped them in your truck.”
He dug his own keys from his pocket, then smiled down at her, sending her heart into a Riverdance. “Let’s go look.”
Sophie’s mouth went dry and every nerve went zingin
g and she knew if she wasn’t careful she’d give him exactly what he wanted. Because at the moment she more than needed it. For the first time in a long time, she actually wanted it too. She took his keys and stepped back, needing the space. “No, I’ll go. You stay and check out my bike.”
She jogged around the building and past the funky ape to his truck. She patted the passenger seat, the floorboards, but found no keys. She remembered the bumpy access road to the gravesite and stuck her hand under the seat, hoping they’d bounced under. Then she sighed with relief when she felt them. But they were stuck on something.
She reached around behind the seat and winced as thorns pricked her palm. She pulled out a bouquet of wilted roses and frowned. They were obviously for someone, because stuck among the flowers was a white card. Before she could look away, the handwritten words registered.
A-I’ll always love you. V
The roses might have been for his mom, she thought, but men didn’t say I’ll always love you to their mothers, not like that. No men she wanted to know anyway.
So he was taken. Fair enough. But betrayal pricked at her heart. He’d watched her all day and he… He what, Sophie? He’d said he didn’t have anyone at home. But that was not necessarily an invitation. Get a grip. You heard what you wanted to hear, because you were sad and needy. Desperate. She wanted to cover her ears, but the word echoed inside her head. She forced herself to be reasonable. He was nice to me. And in the end, that was all he’d done. He’d made no improper advances. He’d been nothing but a gentleman. So of course he was taken. All the good ones were.
He was straddling her bike when she got back, looking lost in thought again. He blinked when she came close. “Did you find them?”
She held up her key ring and tossed him his. “Under the seat.”
“Okay.” He climbed off her bike. “Sophie, I… Thank you. You were a huge help today. I wish we could pay you for your time. But I did promise a pizza.” He lifted his brows. “I know a place that’s open late if you want to get one now.”
Sophie swallowed. He’s taken. She still wanted him… So what kind of woman am I? She made herself smile. “If your department really wants to pay me back, give me a get-outta-jail-free card for the next time I get pulled over for going too fast on my bike.”
Vito frowned. “I wasn’t talking about the department taking you out to dinner. I was talking about me.” He drew a deep breath. “I’m asking you to go to dinner with me.”
She fastened the strap of her helmet under her chin with a hard yank, her heart sinking. Please don’t be asking me on a date. Please be the nice guy I want to believe you are. “Like… a-a-a date?” God, he had her stammering now.
He nodded, soberly. “Yeah. Like a date.” He stepped forward and lifted her chin with his finger until she was looking into his eyes. “I haven’t met anyone like you in a long time. I don’t want to just walk away.”
She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, could only stare into those dark eyes, desperately wanting to believe his words, desperately wanting what she knew she couldn’t have. His thumb brushed her lower lip, sending shivers down her spine. “What do you say?” he murmured, his voice smooth and soothing. “I could follow you home, make sure you get home all right. Pick up a pizza on the way. We can talk some more.”
He moved a hair closer and she knew she was about to be kissed. She knew it would probably be one of the most earth-shattering moments of her existence. “So how about it?” he whispered and she could feel the warmth of him on her skin.
Yes, yes. The words were on the tip of her tongue. Then her brain finally kicked in, replaying Alan Brewster’s voice saying almost the exact same words. Sanity returned like a hammer to her head and she took a lurching step back just as he angled his face to kiss her. “No.” Breathing hard, she backed up until the back of her legs touched her bike. She climbed on, furious, but whether she was more furious with him for trying it or for herself for nearly becoming yet another notch in another man’s bedpost she couldn’t say. “No thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me…”
He stepped aside without another word and she stomped on the starter, revving the bike’s hundred and ten horses to life. Before turning into the street she glanced at her side mirror and saw he hadn’t moved. He stood statue still, watching her go.
Chapter Five
Sunday, January 14, 11:55
P.M.
The ringing of his cell woke him from a sound sleep. With a growl he grabbed it and squinted at the caller ID. Harrington. Self-righteous little has-been prick. “What?”
“It’s Harrington.”
He sat up. “I know. Why the hell are you calling me in the middle of the night?”
“It’s not even midnight. You usually work all night, Lewis.”
That was normally true, but he wasn’t about to let Harrington have the point. He had nothing but contempt for the man and his rainbow-and-Ziggy view of the world. He wanted to strangle the sonofabitch, just like he’d strangled Claire Reynolds. He still did, every time he heard Harrington’s whiny voice.
Harrington had tried to block his art every step of the way, starting with his animation of Claire Dies, a year ago. Too dark, too violent. Too real. But Van Zandt understood business and what sells. The strangulation of “Clothilde” stayed in Behind Enemy Lines even though Harrington bitched and moaned about it. But Harrington wouldn’t bitch and moan much longer.
Van Zandt was systematically shoving Harrington out the door and the idiot didn’t even have a clue. “Goddamn it, Harrington, I was dreaming.” Of Gregory Sanders. His next victim. “Just tell me what’s so important so I can get back to it.”
There was a long pause.
“Hello. You there, man? I swear to God, if you woke me up for nothing-”
“I’m here,” Harrington said. “Jager wants you to speed delivery on the fight scenes.”
So Van Zandt had finally told Harrington he was out. It was about time.
“He wants them by Tuesday,” Harrington added. “Nine
A.M.
”
The sweet pleasure vanished like mist. “Tuesday? What the fuck’s he smoking?”
“Jager’s very serious.” And so was Harrington. It sounded like every word was being dragged from his mouth. “He says you’re a month late.”
“You can’t rush genius.”
There was another pause, and he thought he could hear Harrington’s teeth grind. It was always such fun to yank the man’s chain. “He wants a fight scene and a cut scene from Inquisitor to show at Pinnacle.” Another, harder pause. “We have a booth.”
“Pinnacle?” A booth at Pinnacle meant prestige among gamers. Respect. Pragmatically it meant national distribution, which meant his audience had just become millions. Abruptly his eyes narrowed. This changed things. Pinnacle wouldn’t wait. It was a real deadline. “If you’re shittin’ me, Harrington-”
“It’s true.” Harrington sounded almost upset. “Jager got the invitation tonight. He wanted me to tell you to get those scenes completed by Tuesday.”
He’d make it happen, even though he’d barely started on the fight scenes. He’d been busy creating the dungeon scenes. “You’ve told me. Now let me go back to sleep.”
“Will you have the fight scenes for Jager?” Harrington pressed.
“That’s between me and Van Zandt. But you can tell him I’ll be in on Tuesday,” he added in as condescending a voice as he could muster, then hung up. Harrington deserved to be booted out on his ass. He was stagnant and way past passé.
Putting Harrington from his mind, he swung his leg over the side of the bed. Spreading lubricant over his residual, he grabbed his leg and pulled it in place with the unconscious motion brought on by years of practice. Meeting VZ would throw a hitch in his schedule. He’d have to move Greg Sanders from Tuesday morning to late afternoon, but he’d still have his next scream by Tuesday at midnight. He sat down at his computer and composed an e-mail to Gregory Sanders, changing the tim
e and signing it “Kind regards, E. Munch.”
He knew he couldn’t test Van Zandt’s patience when it came to fight scenes for Pinnacle. Van Zandt recognized his genius, but even VZ would sacrifice art for an animated clip completed in time for Pinnacle. He needed something to show VZ on Tuesday, even if it was half-done. VZ would be satisfied, because even half-done creations by “Frasier Lewis” were worlds better than anything Harrington could do.
He considered the video he’d taken of Warren Keyes wielding a sword and that of Bill Melville brandishing the flail. For all his claimed expertise in martial arts, Bill had never really achieved the rhythm of the flail, and in the end he’d had to demonstrate it himself. He’d found that bringing the flail into contact with Bill’s human head felt a good deal different from the pigs’ heads he’d practiced on. The pigs had been long dead, but Bill… He pulled the video from the neatly shelved collection with a smile. The top of Bill’s head had sheared right off. It would make for a great “entertainment venture.”
He’d grab something to eat, turn off his phone and Internet connection to eliminate all distractions, then he’d get to work on a fight sequence that would make VZ happy and would make Harrington look like the two-bit hack he was.
Monday, January 15, 12:35
A.M.
Bone tired, starving, and still utterly confused by Sophie’s reaction in the parking lot, Vito walked through his front door and into a war zone. For a moment he simply stood and watched as a barrage of wadded paper balls sailed across his living room. A rather expensive vase was perched precariously close to the edge of an end table, knocked askew by the sofa relocation. He needed no other clues to know he’d been invaded.
Then one of the paper balls hit him squarely in the temple and he blinked, stunned. He picked up the offending wad, frowning when he found one of his fishing sinkers inside. The boys had obviously improved their munitions recently. “Guys.” The balls continued to be hurled across the room. “Connor! Dante! Cease and desist. Now.”