She caught him eyeing the latter, of which she was quite proud actually—how many people could claim their desk had cost less than twenty dollars? Sitting behind it, she tapped the monitor button on her computer screen. Her screen saver, a picturesque shot of Whistler Mountain in British Columbia appeared. “So, what’s up, Ian?”
“Wanted your help on a story.”
Her e-mail inbox opened. There was a message from Roger Bowen, its subject line More equipment stolen last night gave her a moment’s pause. She checked the date the e-mail was sent. Today. The thief—or thieves—had balls returning repeatedly to the site. Balls or the slick confidence of a pro, who Bowen swore had to be Hawk.
But she’d driven past the motel Hawk was staying at several times last night, and every time, had seen his pickup parked outside his room. Could he have traveled to the construction site in the wee hours of the morning?
She unwrapped her sandwich. “What kind of help?”
“There’s been a shake-up at the D.A.’s office.”
She took a bite, made a keep-going gesture with her free hand.
“Hope you’d be an unnamed source, give me some inside juice.”
“What kind of juice?” she said around a mouthful of food.
“Something sweet and juicy that involves an affair.”
She flashed him a questioning look.
He leaned back, stretching his beefy arm across the back of the chair, which made his pot belly protrude even more. “Seems a certain office assistant is suing Daniel Lazzaro for sexual harassment and improper discharge.”
Danny Lazzaro, the Dade County D.A. His name had always sounded more like a mafia hit guy than a politician, although, the way he’d shot down Gina at the end, he might as well have been a hit man. At least hit men had some ethics, whereas Danny Lazzaro had none whatsoever.
“Haven’t heard anything.” She snapped off a bite of dill pickle.
“Have you ever heard about Mr. Lazzaro having an affair?”
She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “I can’t believe you’re asking me this question.”
“The office assistant claims she had an affair with Mr. Lazzaro. Seems he promised her a promotion, slept with her, then fired her. Now she’s suing.”
“Gee, I thought Mr. Lazzaro was a happily married man. Says so in all the papers.”
“So, is it true?”
“No idea.”
He stared at her for a moment, then brushed a worn spot on the chair. “So, how’s business?”
“Great.” Lousy until the Roger Bowen case had come in, but no way she’d even hint how tough it’d been rebuilding her career this past year.
He glanced at the screwed-on legs to the door. “Did you…buy it like that?”
“Came with the place,” she lied. “Door decor is very in, you know.”
He smiled patronizingly. “So, you picked Little Havana for your office.”
Why’d you pick Little Havana? was what he really meant.
“My condo’s nearby,” she answered, wondering if her nose was growing, “so commuting to work is a breeze. Plus, I’m within walking distance to downtown.” She wadded up the paper wrappings, tossed them into a trash can. “Working a case right now for a major downtown developer,” she added nonchalantly.
Ian made a faint grunt of interest.
“Involves grand larceny, big thefts—hundreds of thousands of dollars of tools and construction supplies—all of it getting fenced and then shipped to Central America.”
He gave her an appreciative look. “Gonna give me a scoop?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“That story of redemption you promised.”
“Didn’t promise, Gina. Only mentioned it.”
She shrugged, wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Well, mention it in a story, and I’ll make a call to some of the friends I still have at the D.A.’s office.”
He narrowed his eyes, which didn’t dim their predatory glint. “I’ll phone you over the next few days, see what you’ve dug up.”
A few minutes later, she walked him back to the front door. When they reached it, Ian paused. “Say…” He half turned, his lidded eyes, taking her in. “Was it true?”
“Told you, no idea.”
“No. You and Lazzaro.”
The jerk was asking her if the sordid allegations were true after he’d written all those articles alluding they were?
“You asshole,” she muttered. So much for keeping up the front. “You’re the one who tagged me as a ‘hard-up nympho’in the paper, remember?”
He gave a toss of his balding head. “C’mon, Gina. Sticks and stones.”
She opened the heavy door. “Get out before I do something I’ll regret.”
He chuckled. “Like what?”
She started to unzip her fanny pack. “Have a five-thousand-volt baby stun gun in here somewhere…”
“You wouldn’t—”
She pulled it out. “Ian, meet Hot Shot.”
Amazing how quickly a chubby man could run. After shutting the door and bolting it, she dragged in a much-needed breath and exhaled loudly.
So much for redemption.
3
AN HOUR LATER, Gina hauled the folded cot out of the office closet and set it up as she did every night. After losing her job at the D.A.’s office, she’d tried to hold on to her condo in Coconut Grove, but work had been scarce in her new business, so she’d put first things first. Which meant she kept the office space and ditched the condo.
Sometimes her work-home space felt a bit cramped, but as long as she remembered it was a temporary situation, it was manageable. Besides, Gina had fallen in love with Little Havana and its colorful atmosphere, Cuban food, friendly locals. A year ago, her name had popped up all over the Miami media, but not one of the locals had ever mentioned it. Real people never believed what people like Ian wrote, only insider losers with nothing better to do than gossip. She liked real people.
Dressed in an oversized T-shirt and undies, her typical pajamas, Gina crawled into bed and flipped open a Laura Lippman mystery she was halfway through. From outside could be heard faint strains of Latino music. Gina ran her finger down the page, finding the spot where she’d left off. Ah, yes. The scene where Baltimore private investigator, Tess Monaghan, was chatting up a suspect, some muscle-bound hulk of a guy who towered over her.
Gina tried to read, but the fictional man brought back real images of Hawk. Finally, she put down the book and laid back, her arms crossed behind her head as she stared up at a crack in the ceiling. She’d run into some big guys in her line of work, but never one as impressively built as Hawk. And that face. Broad, flat-planed, darkly dangerous. Yet, several times when she’d looked into his eyes, there was a gentleness that had taken her by surprise.
She glanced at her desk where she’d set the camera. She wanted to look at him again. This time, to take her time checking him out, not be rushed and furtive.
A moment later, she was back in bed with the digital camera. She hit the power button, moved to the first photo taken in the photography studio today. Not bad. He’d just tossed his T-shirt, and his hand was in midair. His big, tan, powerful hand. Even in the photo, she could see its solid tendons and standing veins.
What would it feel like to be touched by those hands? She closed her eyes, imagining those large, rough hands roaming over her body. “Good and then some,” she murmured. Opening her eyes, she moved to the next photo.
His chest. She sucked in a sharp breath. It reminded her of a rebel god, powerful and perfect in form. Amazingly, the picture was focused, the subject centered in the frame. I still had control of my body functions, that’s why.
She held out her arm and looked at its pale, translucent color compared to the natural nut-brown of his skin. I really should get outside more. Shooting hoops at the Y was fun exercise—amazing how Hawk had figured out she liked doing that—but she needed to take time to smell the ocean, feel the sun, frol
ic on the sand. Even better, she wanted to travel to Whistler Mountain, her long-dreamed-of fantasy ski trip. If—no, when—she solved this case, one of her first purchases would be a roundtrip ticket to B.C.
She looked at the next shot.
“Nice,” she murmured. In the photo, she’d zoomed in on that teasing trail of black chest hair that bisected those phenomenal pecs. Those weren’t the prefabricated bumps of a guy who did his hour lifting weights at the gym every day. No, Hawk’s brawn was forged through hard physical labor. Riveting, guiding steel beams into place, welding. She closed her eyes, imagining the world he worked in every day, high above the earth. A world of man versus metal, the sky stretching out as far as the eye could see. The hot sun beating down, sweat beading on skin.
She blinked open her eyes. Wow. Okay, next photo.
Blurry. She smiled. My hands were shaking. She moved to the next shot.
A zoomed-in picture of his lower abdomen—taut, brown, ridged. He’d removed his jeans at this point, which meant the next photo would be…
Oh, yesss.
The stretchy, body-molding brief shot. Whoa, baby. As big as the jumbo tortilla-wrapped burritos sold at Frisco’s down the street. She peered closer. Maybe bigger. She’d never be able to order one of those again without thinking of Hawk and his briefs.
Although the air-conditioning unit was chugging away faithfully, she started feeling overly warm, a little claustrophobic. Setting aside the camera, she pulled off her T-shirt, tugged off her undies. After tossing both onto the floor, she slipped back under the sheets, which felt smooth and cool against her hot skin.
She hadn’t slept in the buff since her last boyfriend, a deputy D.A. she’d worked with. They’d both been so caught up in their careers, they’d rarely spent nights together, which meant sleeping in the nude happened a few times a month, tops.
So lying here naked felt deliciously different from her nighttime ritual. A pleasant detour from the same old, same old. Okay, where was I? She stared at the digital image of a wrapped mega burrito. Show me the money, honey.
She flipped the lever to the next photo.
A close-up shot.
Lust throbbed in her blood. She studied his sex for a long moment, remembering how she’d taken this photo moments after he’d lifted the hard hat. At the time, she’d thought he’d been looking right at her. Then she’d dismissed the idea, rationalizing that the lights were too bright for him to see more than a few feet ahead. But what if he had been looking at her as he removed the hat? Had he unveiled himself for her?
She remembered his words. I have nothing to hide.
A dual message.
Just as she was juggling her own dual worlds of P.I. and woman. Those worlds had never been an issue before. But this case was different. If she were totally honest with herself, her worlds had collided the moment she’d stepped into that photography studio and had seen Hawk bathed in all that light, exuding power, confidence and an overwhelmingly raw sexuality.
Raw, steamy, animal sexuality.
She looked at the photo again. So what if her worlds collided? Tonight she could choose which one to be. Tonight she was all woman.
He had to be the most well-hung man she’d ever seen. Ever. Whoever’d said size didn’t matter had obviously been on the short end of the stick, so to speak. Okay, okay, skill and stamina counted, too, but add big to the mix and a woman could be spoiled for life.
A delicious chill skittered up her spine as she imagined what it’d be like to experience Hawk, all of him.
She ran her fingers lightly across her collarbone, her skin prickling pleasurably as she fantasized about his hands—his warm, competent hands—caressing her. He’d cup her aching breasts and massage them, gently, then draw the roughened pads of his fingertips up until they squeezed the very tips of her aching nipples…like…that…
Her swollen, needy breasts tingled, their nubs tightening as she indulged the fantasy with her mind and hands.
She could almost feel his hard body against her body, smell his masculine, musky scent, taste the salt on his skin. Such a strong, silent type wouldn’t talk. He’d show her what he wanted. He’d lift and move her body gently into positions, making low-throated growls of approval in response to her moans of pleasure.
She rubbed her thighs together, wanting more than fantasies.
Setting the camera next to her, she laid on her side, her face inches from the image. “I can’t take my eyes off you,” she whispered teasingly. She licked her lips, imagining what she’d do with her mouth if that image were the real thing.
She rubbed her hand down her body, sliding her finger between the slick folds of her sex. She touched herself, there, and rubbed slowly, imagining it being Hawk’s fingers stroking, circling, exciting her. Imagining those dark, exotic eyes watching her intensified the nagging throb between her legs.
She groaned, her eyes drifting shut. In her mind’s eye, she saw him, naked, leaning over her, his hands slowly replacing hers. She spread her legs, fantasizing about his fingers entering her wet tangle of curls, priming her, driving her. She arched her back, wanting more, more.
“Hawk,” she murmured hoarsely. The sheet clung to patches of her slick skin, rubbed against her sensitized nipples. She tossed it off, feeling wanton and exposed under the stark light. Naked for him as he’d been for her.
Her fingers worked, her insides tightened. She tipped her pelvis up and emitted a shuddering, prolonged groan. The muscles tightened between her legs as every nerve ending was on fire, ready to explode.
For an exquisitely still moment, her entire being hung suspended above the world….
She cried out as the first climax hit, her insides convulsing, squeezing, coming hard. For him, with him.
Afterward, exhausted and trembling, she lay there, panting, amazed how good it had felt. Not that satisfying herself hadn’t felt good before, it’s just this time she hadn’t felt so alone. Her imagination must have been exceptionally tuned because she’d felt that Hawk was here, too. If a fantasy could be that good, she couldn’t even imagine how amazing the reality would be.
That would never happen, of course.
Not that it was illegal to sleep with a target—she’d known plenty of investigators, men and women, who had—she just didn’t believe in it. Mixing business and pleasure was like mixing a Molotov cocktail—it was certain to blow up when you least expected it.
She glanced at the camera, smiled, pressed the power button to off.
“Our one-night stand is over, Hawk.”
“HE’S CHEATING, I know it. Pilar, she’s so in love, she’s—how you say it?—blind. But I seen him with my own eyes.”
Teresa, the thirtysomething owner of Nata’s, the Little Havana coffee spot Gina frequented most mornings, set the cup of cafecito on the counter in front of her. “I seen him with this blonde again last night at the supermarket and, girlfriend, if they was shopping for fruit, I’m Gloria Estefan.” She touched Gina’s hand. “You drink, I get a treat for you.”
Gina took a sip of the hot cafecito, savoring the popular Cuban coffee drink of espresso and caramelized sugar. Typically, she showed up here by 10:00 a.m. for her morning shot of caffeine, but today it was nearly noon because she’d been researching Hawk on the Internet. If she got that next shot at an interview with him, she was going to be prepared as hell.
“Brazo gitano for my favorite P.I.” Teresa set a fat pastry in front of Gina. “You eat, I talk.” Her heavy bracelets jangled as she gestured.
“Let me guess, you want me to follow this guy.” Gina took a bite of the Cuban pastry, its sponge cake and cream filling nearly as good as her fantasy with Hawk last night. She’d had to have quite a talk with herself this morning about her colliding worlds. Today, she was a P.I., digging for facts, focused on her work. No more thinking about those photos.
“Yes. I don’t like my friend being made a fool of, getting her heart—how you say it?—smashed. What do you charge?”
When
Gina had worked in the D.A.’s office, the bulk of her cases were investigating homicides, sexual assaults and white-collar thefts. Since going solo, most her cases involved cheating spouses.
“How about free cups of cafecito for a week.”
Teresa shook her head, her luxurious black curls jiggling. “No. You and me, we’re business women. You always pay me, now I want to pay you. How much? And if your offer is free cafecito again, I call another P.I.”
Gina smiled. “I’ll take the case. If I find evidence this guy’s being unfaithful, I’ll charge you my going rate. If I don’t find any evidence, it’s half price and that’s my final offer.”
“We got a deal.” Teresa arched a shapely eyebrow. “How’s the brazo gitano?”
“Delicioso.”
“I’ll bring a box to your office. You’ve gotten skinny since you moved to the neighborhood—a little extra would do your body good.”
Last night’s fantasy rendezvous with Hawk had done her body good, too. So much for keeping her mind focused on only work.
“My, my,” murmured Teresa, casting Gina a sly look. “I think you get skinny from too much work, but maybe it’s because of a man you haven’t told me about?”
Heat crawled up her neck. “There’s no man.”
“Uh-huh.”
Gina checked her wristwatch. “You know I’m not dating.”
A jangle of bracelets. “Pshaw. That ‘hard-up nympho’bullshit is long ago. You’re punishing yourself for something you never did, no matter what Lizard said.”
“Lazzaro.”
“Like I said, Lizard. He accused you to cover his sorry ass.”
“That he did. Unfortunately, few know that.” She put some bills on the counter. “Thanks. Gotta run.”
“To see this mystery man?”
“No, just his motel room.”
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Gina drove into the parking lot of the Captain Cook Motel near Miami’s South Beach. She’d driven through this motel lot every night since taking the case, and every night, she’d seen Hawk’s truck parked outside his room. She had a new theory—maybe the runner picked up the goods here. If that was the case, some items might still be in his motel room from the theft the night before last.
Men at Work Page 18