He was wrong. She had other choices. She just had to make the right one—the one she could live with.
9
After work, Tony drove across town to his parents’ house, parking in the driveway behind Julie’s car. The grass needed cutting, he saw when he got out. Anna’s flower beds were rapidly being overtaken by weeds, and there was a small cedar growing in the gutter over the garage. Well, hell, he didn’t have anything planned for Saturday.
Anna opened the door before the doorbell’s echo had faded. In place of a greeting, she took hold of his chin, then turned his face for a better look. “Isn’t that a beautiful shiner?” she asked dryly before presenting her cheek for his kiss. She smelled of perfume and cookies and bedtime stories, and made him nostalgic for childhood, when there wasn’t anything her hugs couldn’t make better.
“Come on in. You’re letting out the cold.”
He obeyed, and she locked the dead bolt behind him, pocketing the key. “How’s Dad?”
Her only response was a shrug before she started back to the kitchen.
“How are you?”
She smiled at him over her shoulder. “I’m fine. I’d ask you, but the answer’s pretty clear on your face. You know, you’re my middle child, and I’ve always loved you best”— she disregarded his snort—“but, son, why don’t you get a job where people don’t consider it their duty to beat you up?”
“It’s not like it’s a regular thing,” he protested, then changed the subject. “Why don’t you find a good lawn service to handle the yard?”
She tweaked his ear before turning her attention back to the sauce on the stove. “Your brothers will take care of it.”
“When?”
She waved a hand in the air. “They’re busy, you know.”
Paying customers came first—that was the business’s motto, and they always had enough paying customers to keep them busy. Nick’s and J.J.’s own yards would look like hell if their wives didn’t nag regularly, and Dom and Matt chose to live in an apartment where mowing wasn’t a consideration. That left him. “I’ll come over Saturday.”
Anna offered a token argument. “You don’t need to.”
“I know.” Leaning against the counter, he shifted his gaze to the window over the sink. Julie was sitting in a chaise longue, and Joe was standing in the middle of the yard, squirting her youngest two children with the hose. The kids were squealing and running circles around him, making him laugh that full, deep laugh Tony remembered so well. “They’re having fun.”
The spoon Anna had been using clattered against the ceramic rest before falling to the stove top. When he turned, her arms were folded tightly across her middle, hands clenched into fists. “He asked me who the kids were four times in the space of an hour. His own grandbabies!”
“Mom . . .” What could he say? He can’t help it? She knew that better than any of them. Be patient? She’d already shown the patience of a saint. Everything will be okay? It wouldn’t. Not ever.
She stood there, her face pale, lips thin, the usual light in her eyes dull and bitter, and he realized for the first time how much his father’s illness had affected her. Maybe Lucia was right. Maybe this was too much for Anna to handle alone. Granted, Julie came over almost every day, the others stopped in at least once a week, and Tony swore he would start coming by more than his usual twice a week. But the bulk of the responsibility rested on their mother’s shoulders, and right now those shoulders were looking pretty insubstantial.
Before he could come up with anything, Anna forced a smile and patted his hand. “Never mind me. I didn’t sleep well last night. Will you stay for dinner?”
“I . . . can’t. I have plans,” he lied. If he stayed, he would feel honor-bound to bring up Lucia’s assisted-living idea, and he didn’t know—didn’t want to know—if he would be strong enough.
“Dare I hope that these plans involve a woman?”
An image of Selena came to mind, sitting in his living room, a cool look on her lovely face. Maybe sympathy could get him a few more hours of her time this evening or, hell, maybe he could just ask her out. “Hope away.”
“Oh, good! Bring her with you Saturday. I’ll fix your grandmother’s linguine alla marinara and we’ll chat while you cut the grass.”
He tried to imagine Selena chatting over linguine with Anna. Selena was so exotic, and pudgy, motherly Anna was about as far from exotic as a person could get.
“I’ll find out if she’s busy,” he hedged. If Selena turned down his invitation, he might have to consider the idea that she wasn’t attracted to him at all—not something his ego wanted to know, to say nothing of his libido. “I’m gonna say hello to Dad and Julie, then head on home.”
As he stepped out into the muggy heat, he removed his jacket, then loosened his tie. “Hey, Dad, Jules, kiddos.”
His nephews shouted hello in unison, but Joe’s only response was an absent nod, stranger to polite stranger.
Julie came to stand beside him, sliding her arm around his waist and resting her head on his shoulder before squinting up at him. “Cool stitches. Two more than last time. You ever get tired of having a target painted on your back? Though, in this case, it looks like the bull’s-eye was on your nose.”
“I’m a sucker for pain.” He nodded toward Joe. “Where is he today?”
“About twenty-five years in the past. He thinks we’re the nice family who moved into the Howards’ house down the block. He’s invited the boys to play with Dom when he gets home from preschool.”
“Damn. I wish . . .” Instead of finishing, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ve got to go. Thanks.”
“For what?”
He gestured toward his father, crouching in the yard now and watching the kids play.
“Hey, he took care of us. How could I not help Mom take care of him? You’d do it if you had the time.”
“I’ll make the time. See you later.”
On the way home he considered how he could rearrange his schedule. He could cut back on his self-imposed overtime and give his mother a break a couple evenings a week. It wasn’t much, but he imagined every little bit would help.
While locking Joe away somewhere wouldn’t.
The first thing he saw when he turned into the cul-de-sac was a tall, slender figure pushing a lawn mower across his front yard. By the time he pulled into his driveway, Selena was pushing the mower back toward him from the far edge of the lawn. Her own yard was already cut, making his look shaggier in comparison. Sweat glistened on her arms and legs and soaked her tank top where it clung to her breasts and middle. The sight made his breath catch and his blood drain lower.
He got out of the car, gathered his briefcase and coat, then collected the mail from the box before meeting her at the edge of the driveway. As she released the handle on the mower, the engine cut off, leaving in its wake a quiet so strong it echoed. “You don’t have to do this.”
Her smile was cool and elegant despite her sweaty state. “I know. I like mowing. It’s instant gratification.”
Oh, honey, I can show you instant gratification. He swallowed, difficult with an already-dry mouth, and hoped the hard-on he was getting just looking at her wasn’t too noticeable. “I, uh, really appreciate it, but, uh, I’m already in your debt. . . .”
“Who’s keeping track?” She raised one damp hand in a subtle gesture toward his face. “How do you feel?”
“Better than I look, which is life as usual.”
“You look fine.”
No, she looked fine. Amazingly beautiful. Sensual. Sexual. Combustible. Lethal.
Death by Selena. What a way to go.
He casually shifted so that he held his coat in front of him. “I can finish up here.”
“By the time you change clothes, I’ll be done. Then . . .” For the first time since he’d met her, she looked insecure. Her dark chocolate gaze flitted to his, then away, and her fingers knotted around the mower handle. “After I clean up, I thought I would ge
t some dinner. Maybe you . . . I wouldn’t mind having company.”
It wasn’t the most flattering invitation he’d ever received, but, hey, he wasn’t proud. He would take her any way he could get her. “What a coincidence. I wouldn’t mind being company. You have anything particular in mind?”
“You can choose,” she replied with a shrug.
“Around seven?”
She smiled faintly. “I’ll see you then.” She started the mower with one pull, then turned to cut another swath along the length of the property. He watched her a moment before climbing the steps to the door. Maybe Marla had been right. He really did have the damnedest luck.
Damon was annoyed as hell when he let himself into William’s study. He crossed to his usual spot in front of the desk in three strides and bluntly asked, “What do you want?”
William slowly swiveled his chair around to face him. Damon knew the admonishments he was about to offer— knock before you enter, wait for an invitation, watch your tone, watch your attitude—and didn’t care. He’d heard them all before. But when William spoke, he didn’t bother with admonishments. “Apparently I disturbed you.”
Hell, yeah, getting a royal summons right in the middle of the best fuckin’ blow job he’d ever had, had disturbed him. And Lucia, damn her selfish little heart, had refused to finish. The mood was broken, she’d said. Go on, do whatever you have to do, and we’ll try again later. Bitch.
“I spoke to Selena today,” William announced. That was all he said, forcing Damon to at least pretend he gave a damn.
“How is she?”
“She was impudent. She accused me of distrusting her, of having her followed.”
Damon couldn’t resist pointing out the obvious. “You told me to assign someone to follow her. You did it because you don’t trust her.”
William directed a dangerous gaze his way. “And now you’re being impudent.”
Closing his eyes, Damon drew a deep breath. What he was, was off balance. Too little blood flow to his brain was making him reckless, and reckless never paid off with a man like William. “I’m sorry,” he said, hoping he looked and sounded humble enough to satisfy the boss. “I was . . . in the middle of something—”
William dismissed him with a wave that expressed zero interest in what he’d interrupted. “She looked me in the eye and called me by my name.”
That caught Damon’s attention. Once he’d suggested that perhaps he should call William “Uncle” to explain the unusual alliance between a teenage boy and a stranger nearly three times his age, and he had been quickly and harshly rejected. A few years later the old man had proudly announced that he’d taken in a half-black, half–Puerto Rican orphan who would now call him “Uncle.” The bastard.
“So you think Selena is developing a backbone.” It was damn well past time, though who was Damon to judge? It had taken him twenty years with William to decide he was through playing the role of good and loyal servant.
“I think she’s testing her limits, like a child. She’s pushing to see how far she can push.” William paused, then formed his next words precisely. “I want you to push back.”
“How hard?”
He gestured negligently. “Remind her who’s in control. Frighten her. But don’t hurt her. And don’t let her recognize you.”
Damon smiled faintly. With the exception of Bryan Hayes, he’d never let anyone recognize him unless it served his purposes. And Hayes had simply gotten a lucky break. His idiot friend, Tommy Howard, number three on the hit list, had asked him to wait outside their meeting place, as if some fucking loser outside the building could save Howard’s life inside. Damon hadn’t been expecting surveillance, and he damn well hadn’t expected Hayes to follow him back to the estate, then attempt to blackmail William. But like his friend Tommy, Bryan wasn’t a problem anymore.
“Do you still have the key to Selena’s house that Christine Evans gave you?”
Damon nodded. He’d used it to gain access to the house the day before, though William would shit if he knew. He had walked through the rooms, studied the paintings in the sunroom, located the hiding places for her three weapons, then closed the phone book on the kitchen island. Such a little thing, but he’d known it would be enough to rattle her.
“Use it. Help her to understand who’s in charge here. And do it tonight.” Turning away, William dismissed him without another word.
Damon left, taking the stairs two at a time and exiting the back door. He would deliver the message to Selena, all right. And someday, in the not-too-distant future, he would deliver his own message to William.
Though Selena had had every intention of cooking dinner at home, seven o’clock found her standing in front of the bathroom’s full-length mirror. Dressed in crimson and blue silk, hair cascading down her back, the fragrance of jasmine mixed with passionflower on her skin, she looked . . .
Like an island girl, Tony’s voice whispered in her mind. All she needed was a flower in her hair, a little island music, stars to dance under, and a man to dance for . . .
The ringing of the doorbell drew her from the sensual haze of her thoughts. She took a shawl of fringed and embroidered silk from the closet shelf, picked up her straw handbag, and silently chanted to herself to stay calm as she made her way down the stairs.
Tony had shaved and changed into jeans and a polo shirt the color of creamy butter. From the left, undamaged side, he looked downright handsome. When he smiled, he was gorgeous from both sides. “You look incredible.”
She hesitated. She normally accepted compliments easily, largely because she didn’t believe most of them. This one felt different—charming and sweet and real. Because she wanted it to be? “Thank you,” she murmured. After setting the alarm, she stepped onto the stoop to lock up, then turned to find him much too close. Go to bed with him, William had ordered. That could well be the easiest thing she’d ever done in her life.
And the hardest.
He offered to put the top up on the ’Vette. She politely refused, instead gathering her hair in one hand to protect it from the wind. They talked little on the way to the restaurant, where they were seated side by side at one end of the sushi bar.
The chef, a lovely young woman with multiple piercings, greeted Tony by name and took their order. Selena idly watched her, all too aware that Tony was watching her. She was accustomed to receiving interested looks from men. She wasn’t accustomed to reacting—to her skin growing warm, her breath becoming more shallow, a tingling of anticipation spreading through her.
Finally, she faced him, finding his expression part curiosity and part pure male attraction. “They seem to keep you busy at work.”
He shrugged. “Homicide’s a growth industry.”
“What is your caseload like?”
“Normally, it’s not too bad, but lately we’ve had a string of related murders. Right now our guy’s got nine kills to his credit, so it’s keeping us busy.”
“Do you have a suspect?” When he shook his head, she lent a sympathetic tone. “It must be tough. Like making sense of a puzzle without all the pieces.”
“It doesn’t help that all the victims were bad guys themselves. Half the department and most of the city don’t want us to catch the guy. They like that he’s cleaning up the streets at no cost to the public.”
“You don’t share that opinion?”
He gave another shrug. “It doesn’t matter what kind of crooks these guys are. It doesn’t give someone the right to kill them in cold blood.”
“The media say the killer is a vigilante.” She’d learned that from his notes—had learned, too, that he doubted that theory. “Do you agree?”
For a long moment he merely looked at her, until the chef interrupted to hand him a scallop-shaped plate with the first part of their order. As he set it between them, he said mildly, “I spend my entire day and a good part of my night focused on nothing but this case. I’d really like to take a break from it, if you don’t mind.”
; Selena picked up her chopsticks, breaking the slender pieces apart. “You must get that a lot—people wanting to know about your work.”
He dipped a piece of squid in soy sauce, then ate it before replying. “People are curious. Hell, I’m curious. That’s why I became a cop.”
“Of course, having a father who was a cop didn’t influence you at all.”
“Maybe a little.” He grinned. “What about you? Who influenced you to become an artist?”
She was so unaccustomed to answering personal questions that she didn’t have a ready answer. “No one in particular,” she said at last. “A few of my art instructors encouraged me, but most people thought it was a risky way to earn a living.”
“What people? Your parents?”
“No. They were already gone.” Not a lie. Gone meant no longer in her life. She couldn’t help it if he translated it to dead. “My uncle paid for my education. He wanted a degree he could use.”
“You mean, a degree you could use.”
She considered it a moment, then gave him a sidelong look. “No. I don’t.”
“So he’s not happy you’re in the art business.”
“Not particularly. He keeps trying to recruit me into his business.”
“Which is?”
The drug trade wouldn’t go over well with him, she was sure, and import/export seemed too clichéd. “Shipping,” she said. There was enough truth to it to satisfy her, but not enough to rouse his suspicions.
“Sounds . . . interesting.”
For the first time in too long, she laughed. “I can tell you really think so. I bet other careers interest you only to the degree they become involved with your police work. You’re a born cop.”
“What can I say? I bleed TPD tan and green.”
The chef handed them each a dish before moving down the counter to wait on new customers. Hers held a roll made of sticky rice, asparagus, raw tuna, cream cheese, and spicy sauce, wrapped in seaweed and cut into six pieces. Each piece was a mouthful, but she savored the first bite— the difference in textures, the mingling of flavors, the tang of the sauce—going so far as to close her eyes briefly in appreciation.
The Assassin Page 17