by Joanne Rock
“I love that you fight on the right side of the law and I love it that you take the rules into your own hands when it comes to taking skanky pictures of me off the Internet even when I think maybe they need to be there for prosecution purposes. I love that you’re willing to share your instincts with me about people like Rosie Gillespie even when I’m only seeing the evidence right in front of my nose. You know how many points I won in the department today because of you?”
Sean studied Donata’s face in the soft shadows of evening and knew he’d be powerless to say no to this gutsy, determined lady who had made the best of every single tough situation life had thrown her way. Even now, as she pleaded with him so sweetly, she looked at him through a shiner that would linger on her pretty face for a week or two.
He brushed a thumb across the raw scrape on her cheek and knew he’d risk anything for another shot with her since his every noisy instinct told him she was The One. His first and last long-term woman.
“It wasn’t me who won you points with the guys at the precinct.” He’d just been doing his job the only way he knew how—following his hunches and making split-second decisions.
“Something made them change their minds about me,” she argued, stubborn and maybe just a little bit naive about police politics. But then, she had street smarts in spades to make up for it.
She’d been so focused on building her own character for the past few years that maybe she’d neglected her instinct radar for the people around her.
“You won their admiration by your ability to take a punch. In a police station full of guys, honor is given to those who are willing to spill a little blood for the good of the whole. So when you walk in with an arrest and a black eye to show for it, you buy yourself credibility that no squeaky-clean résumé can provide.”
Understanding gleamed in her blue eyes.
“That’s sick.”
“Sick or not, now you’re one of their own.”
Her lips pursed in thought.
“But I’d far rather earn your affection than theirs.” Her fingertips slid from his face to his chest to twitch restlessly.
“Donata.” He tipped his forehead to hers, inhaling the sweet scent of her that lingered despite being dragged through a building and thrown into an old van. “Don’t you know you already have my affection?”
“Will you forget about what I said last night?” She gripped his shoulders with surprising strength and Sean heard a world of messages in that urgent touch.
She needed him as badly as he needed her.
The rightness of their being together flowed through him like a warm tide.
“I don’t remember anything you said to me last night.” He’d gladly fake amnesia on that one.
Her smile clutched at his heart and held tight.
“I love you, Sean.”
“I’m right there loving you, too,” he whispered, brushing a kiss across her mouth. He cupped her cheek gently in one hand as he drew her closer with the other.
“I hope you brought your pillow tonight,” she murmured softly between kisses, her hand skimming under his shirt to splay across his back.
“Yeah?” He tilted her head at a new angle to access all the more of her sweet mouth. “And why is that?”
He knew. But was it so wrong to want to hear her say it?
“I’d like you to spend the night with me. All night. Every night. For as long as you can.”
The invitation meant almost as much to him as her saying she loved him since he had a damn good idea how tough it was for Donata to make herself vulnerable to anyone.
“Maybe, if I please you well, you’ll let me share your pillow.” He’d like nothing better than to please her every way possible if only she’d let him.
Her hips rocked against his as their bodies melded seamlessly together, the heat and fire intensified now that they’d let their hearts come into play. This kind of heat didn’t just sizzle. It seared them into true partners. Halves of one stronger whole.
And yeah, that knowledge made it easy for him to cross the line into commitment terrain.
“I’d like that.” Her fingers strayed south to the waistband of his jeans. “No stopwatches necessary either.”
He could see a future of waking up beside this amazing woman as clearly as he could envision taking her to bed for the rest of his life.
He dipped his head to kiss her neck and taste the soft hollow of flesh beneath her ear.
“Believe me, lady, the pleasure is all mine.”
* * * * *
ISBN: 978-1-5525-4876-9
DON’T LOOK BACK
Copyright © 2007 by Joanne Rock.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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JUST ONE LOOK
Joanne Rock
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
PROLOGUE
RED TOOK GREAT PLEASURE from hiding in plain sight.
The assistant producer mingled with the B-movie star’s entourage, an invitation to another studio’s set never difficult to procure if you had connections.
God bless connections. In New York’s underground film industry, you could buy your way to the top faster with the right contacts than you could with a big schlong or double D boobs. And while Red might not have the kind of star power that dingbat John de Milo possessed in the industry, at least Red knew how to make friends and blend in on the bedroom set of a cable after-dark special that wasn’t quite porn but wouldn’t make the cut as an R-rated movie. In a business full of insecurity, appearing nonthreatening to all egomaniac parties concerned was critical to longevity. That fine art of flying under the radar helped when it came to treading the outside borders of what was legal in filmmaking. Plus, the anonymity allowed Red to lurk right underneath Tabitha Everhart’s nose.
“Quiet on the set,” the director called to calm the din of the crowd in a studio that had more of a party atmosphere than any Hollywood production.
Actor John de Milo was the last one to shut his trap, but then he looked like he was tripping on the sidelines of the set—not a good thing for a man who’d been privy to sensitive information once upon a time. Red would have to do something about that.
Tabitha Everhart hadn’t opened her mouth all day, her visit to the set where she’d been hired to act as a body double next week just a chance to observe the filming in action. But just because Tabitha was quiet today didn’t mean she would be forever. Tabitha was one of very few people who had all the necessary pieces to uncover Red’s secrets.
“Action!” The director’s call started the sex scene in motion and the bedroom backdrop became a
playground for the three so-called actors intent on using the cable movie for a jump to more legitimate shows.
This was the upscale version of porn? Red’s producer’s eye took a jaundiced view of a piece that wouldn’t make nearly as much as something spicier.
If only Tabitha had consented to making that erotic film long ago. She would have been one of the industry’s stars and she’d never be hungry for work again. Her high-profile divorce wouldn’t have hurt the kind of career she could have had. As it was, Tabitha struggled financially.
A damn shame she had missed such an opportunity. And an even bigger shame that she knew too much. There was an old-school sweetness about Tabitha that everyone admired—even her egomaniac colleagues. In this business, that was saying something.
The actors moaned and sighed over one another as they bent over the bed without really taking off anything substantial yet, their bodies just needed for close ups of skin and lips, closed eyelids and scratching fingernails. But the sexual pantomime continued for an audience of at least twenty-five, with John de Milo acting out an exaggerated version of the male star’s hip-driving thrusts in the shadows of the set well behind the director.
Tabitha ignored the guy, studiously observing the scene in front of her rather than acknowledging the actor’s dry-humping technique. Red suspected she’d flee the set as soon as the director called cut.
Then Red would be back to following her more discreetly. No more hiding in plain sight.
Because no matter that Tabitha didn’t realize she’d walked away with a key piece of information about Red during her divorce, the body double would have to be silenced.
CHAPTER 1
KEEPING A CLOSE REIN on his dog’s leash, Warren Vitalis rounded the corner of Bank Street and Greenwich Avenue with the same wary alertness of any cop who’d been on the job for at least a decade. Around every bend lurked the possibility of danger, even for an off-duty detective out taking his mutt for a run.
“Hi, Warren.” Two middle-aged men strolling down Bank Street arm in arm greeted Warren instead of any danger.
“You guys are done early,” Warren shouted back as he sped past the partners who shared ownership of a restaurant and an antique store on the route Warren and Buster ran every night. “Is business slow?”
“Bite your tongue, Detective,” the slighter man—Scott—called back. “We just hired help to close up at night so we can turn in early. We’re not the party boys we used to be.”
Warren flashed a thumbs-up before gaining speed through a construction zone where the street was covered by a temporary wooden tunnel. Notorious places for crime, the passageways provided plenty of nooks for thieves to hide, but Buster didn’t look worried. The Akida-German shepherd mix charged into the darkness with typical speed. Warren might not be on duty tonight and he wasn’t in his own precinct, but he still considered this section of the West Village to be his beat since he lived a couple of blocks over. If he could provide a little extra safety for Scott and DeShaun, the restaurateurs, or for the handful of people who were out for a walk at 11:00 p.m., he felt a little more worthy of his badge.
Either that, or maybe riding a desk at the precinct for half his shift hours lately simply made him itchy to be back on the streets. His ballistics expertise had made for a fast career rise after a rough start, but it had also tied him to cold case files more often than he cared to remember. As rewarding as it might be to catch a perp roaming free ten years after the guy committed his crime, Warren missed the adrenaline rush that came with working cases in progress.
Slowing down at a shuffling noise between the scaffolding posts inside the construction tunnel, he spotted a homeless guy catching a few z’s on a length of cardboard. Buster circled back to stand by Warren’s legs, vigilant even when the threat level was low.
“Hey, Larry.” In his twelve years on the force, Warren had learned you couldn’t save every homeless guy on the street. That didn’t stop him from at least recognizing them, since one of the biggest threats to a vagrant’s already tenuous grip on their pride was fading from the public consciousness all together. If society refused to see these people, sooner or later they vanished.
There was a time in Warren’s life where he’d identified more than Larry would ever know.
“Larry?”
Warren started to lean down to make sure the guy was still breathing at the same time Buster’s ears straightened. A low growl started in the dog’s throat, but the warning wasn’t directed toward the drunk passed out with a bottle of Night Train still clutched in one hand. Buster’s sudden wariness was focused at the far end of the construction tunnel.
Straightening, Warren listened to the night noises outside the thin plywood walls that housed the laborers from cold winter winds whipping past. Cars rushing by, tires clunking over maintenance hole covers, and the music from a nearby bar were all the usual sounds of this block.
Until a shot fired.
Sprinting toward the echo the same time as his dog, Warren raced headlong through the tunnel, past endless scaffolding and walls that prevented a clear sight of the street. Tires squealed outside as a car took off, but by the time he emerged from the Gotham City passageway, the vehicle must have already turned up Hudson or a road farther down.
He would have followed his sense of hearing to chase a potential license plate, his pace as fast as any detective in the city thanks to numerous Ironman competitions over the years, but already he could hear a woman screaming from a building nearby.
Déjà vu.
It was the worst night of his life all over again.
* * *
LONG, FROZEN MINUTES passed before Tabitha Everhart could take a breath. In reality it had probably only been half a minute. The shriek of squealing tires had faded to the normal rush of late-night traffic outside her street-level living room window. The methodic thump of cars flying over a maintenance hole cover echoed the erratic beat of her heart in the aftermath of the shot that had pierced her window, shattering it in a vast network of cracks that radiated out from one perfectly round hole in the window.
Time seemed suspended, her gaze locked on the horrible glass spiderweb that meant her world wasn’t nearly as safe a she’d been hoping.
“Police. Open up!”
The pounding at the door rattled its way through her momentary daze, startling up full-blown panic. If the police were at her door, wouldn’t she have heard sirens? Seen a flashing light outside the broken glass?
Oh, God.
She scrambled toward her phone. Dialed. Fumbled. Dialed again.
The pounding continued. Harder. More ominous.
The man at her door broke through, half falling on the floor in a roll he leaped out of, his gun drawn.
“Has anyone been hit?” He asked the question with the weapon trained on her as his gaze spun around the room.
Words failed her. He was going to shoot her.
She clutched the phone in her hand, her body half sprawled across her coffee table in the race to dial 911.
“I—” Her throat closed. And then the strangest words came to mind despite her fear.
“Since when do the cops point guns at the victims?” Anger at long-ago police officers who’d once shown up at her door for a domestic dispute couldn’t help but influence her reaction to this man.
But oh, God, would he answer her stupid question by shooting her?
“Since we have no way of knowing who’s a victim and who’s a whacked-out killer, ma’am. Warren Vitalis, NYPD.” He dug in a back pocket and came up with a leather case that unfolded to show a badge and official-looking identification.
Some of the unreasonable anger fizzled away. Fear returned to weaken her knees.
“May I see?” She kept the phone to her ear and told herself she needed to put 911 on speed dial even though she prayed she’d never have to use it again after tonight.
Her heart still raced from the rush of adrenaline and mind-numbing fear that had robbed her of the ability to
remember three simple digits. Nine. One. One.
“Look all you want.” He winged over the badge like a Frisbee while he glanced around her humble apartment and makeshift decorating before slowly lowering his gun. “You’re alone in the residence?”
She blinked and nodded quickly, a wealth of unexpected emotion suddenly clogging her throat. She ought to know by now that if you suppress your fears long enough they’ll come out to bite you in the butt even harder when you’re not looking.
Her brain still didn’t seem to be functioning as she stared at his identification labeling him as Detective Warren Vitalis of the New York Police Department, true to his word. If she’d only seen his headshot, she would think he looked like a cold, hard man despite the attractive features. He wore his hair so tightly cropped he could have been a marine, the shorn hint of dark hair making him appear dangerous.
A round diamond rested in one ear, moving him more in the category of gangster than military man. She looked up at him now to see the bright white stone wink in the muted streetlight filtering in through sheer curtains that fluttered in the wind now that a hole had been blown through the window.
He studied the broken pattern of the glass for long moments before busting out a pocketsize plastic ruler with a hinge in the middle that allowed it to fold in half. But then she watched him angle the two sides near the bullet hole and realized the tool must have been a protractor since it seemed to measure angles, too.
Deep-set green eyes looked over at her suddenly, as if he just remembered her presence.
“Feel free to call my department, Miss—?”
“Everhart.” She stood, dropping the phone back into its cradle before returning his badge. “Tabitha Everhart.”