Using paper towels as both plate and napkin, she warmed the slices just enough to soften the cheese, then climbed onto a barstool and took a ravenous bite. The flavors of the sauce, the meats, the cheeses, and especially the onions and peppers, settled and soothed the grumbling in her stomach. Too soon the pizza was gone. She washed her hands, then carried her stuff into the guest room.
Unpacking was simple: her folded clothes went on the shelves in the closet, her shoes on the floor underneath and her toiletries in the guest bath cabinet. She wandered back into the hall and around to the other bedroom and stood in the doorway. The bed was queen-size—she’d seen so many massive beds that she’d doubted anyone but her owned a smaller size—and the sheets were light blue. A blue blanket covered them, and a shades-of-blue quilt was pushed to one side. It was handmade, with perfectly aligned corners and tiny stitches.
So this was where the infamous Jimmy DiBiase laid his head at night.
This was where she could lay her head at night. For a while. Maybe a long while.
I’m committed to you, Tine.
Maybe for the rest—the best—of her life.
When a loud buzz sounded, she shrieked and whirled around, then sagged against the door. Intercom. Alarm system. Doorman. Concierge service. Jimmy had told her about them before he’d left. He hadn’t told her someone might be calling, but that was okay. As soon as she stopped shaking, she would answer like a normal adult.
“This is Stefan from the concierge desk.” The voice was young, male, the accent distinctly not Southern. “We have Mr. DiBiase’s grocery delivery. Shall we bring it up now?”
Martine told him yes, then smiled faintly on her way to the door. So that was how people with money did their grocery shopping. It was a perk she could get accustomed to.
Within minutes, Stefan was at the door, pushing a trolley loaded with canvas shopping bags. He made polite small talk while unloading everything onto the kitchen counters, and bless his heart, his smile never wavered when it became clear that no tip was forthcoming. With a pleasant reminder to reset the alarm, he left, and she returned to the kitchen, regretting her habit of never carrying cash.
“Yeah, like you woke up this morning thinking you’d be tipping the concierge for a delivery,” she murmured as she began unpacking. She wasn’t sure she’d ever even stayed at a place with a concierge before, much less used their services.
There were a lot of shopping bags—natural, she supposed, for someone who was starting from scratch. All the staples were there: flour, sugar, spices, oil, condiments. A selection of canned, frozen and fresh vegetables. Shrimp, beef, chicken and pork. Rice, pasta, bread, deli meats and cheeses. Lots of cheeses, and three boxes of crackers. So Jimmy was a cheese-and-cracker guy.
Smiling at the image of him hunkered on a barstool, making a dinner of that and one of the sodas or beers, she opened the last bags and found two large cartons of ice cream, an apple caramel pie fresh from the bakery, an assortment of chocolates and coffee. The final bag, one Stefan had placed carefully in a corner of the counter, held tall paper sleeves, each cushioning a bottle of liquor: Bailey’s, Kahlúa, bourbon and rum. Four of the spirits she’d offered him at the apartment.
It touched her that he’d remembered.
It seemed odd, deciding where food would go in someone else’s kitchen. Once she’d taken care of that, she folded the empty shopping bags, stored them in a drawer, then retrieved a box of dishes from the hall. Now that she had dish soap and had discovered a stash of kitchen towels, she might as well unpack some of his supplies so they could make use of the groceries. Besides, she doubted Jimmy was going to be letting her out of the apartment every time a meal rolled around. That seemed to defeat the point of hiding.
With the television turned on for company, she washed and dried insulated glasses, plastic giveaway cups, logoed coffee cups and cereal bowls. There was a set of dishes so artfully mismatched that they seemed beyond Jimmy’s ability to choose. A leftover from Alia? No, Alia loved food, but she didn’t give a damn what it was served on, and she wasn’t into subtleties of tones and variations any more than Jimmy.
Maybe another former girlfriend had chosen the vintage floral-pattern dishes. Heaven knew, he’d had plenty of them. It was a fact of his life, part of how he’d become the man he was. He’d made mistakes, and he said he’d learned from them.
She believed him.
Never get involved with a man with the intention of changing him, her mother’s lifelong best friend and serial divorcée, Rona, liked to say. Accept him the way he is, or move on down the road, honey, because that ride you’re on is gonna get real bumpy.
Bette had said Rona’s ride was never going to smooth out until she swore off either marriage or divorce. Going on ten years single, it seemed she’d made the right choice.
After unpacking, washing, drying and putting away six boxes of kitchenware, Martine walked into the hall for a seventh, stopped and stretched, feet apart, arms high in the air, then slowly bent at the waist to ease the kinks out of her spine. As her fingertips brushed the floor, a key turned in the front door lock, and an instant later, the door swung open to reveal an upside-down version of Jimmy in the hallway. Immediately her face flushed deeper than could be blamed on the position, and just as immediately a grin spread across his face.
She stood more quickly than she should have, hair tumbling back into her face, heat rushing through her but not from embarrassment. The way he’d looked at her, the hungry, needy glaze in his eyes, the memories of their kiss and of his quiet declaration—I’m committed to you... They all combined to make her feel warm and quivery and nervous and excited and very, very girlie.
Summoning a normal voice from somewhere, she said, “You should give a person warning.”
He stepped inside, shrugged out of his overcoat and hung it in the closet. “I figured using the intercom or ringing the bell might startle you, and if you tried to use the Taser or the pepper spray, I could duck back out and close the door really fast.” He removed his jacket, too, and loosened the tie around his neck as he approached her. A whiff of cold, fresh air came off him, and an aura of satisfaction surrounded him.
“You have a good day?”
He shrugged. “In between. I learned a little. Not enough.” He glanced at the stack of empty boxes teetering on one side of the hallway. “Wow. You got a lot done.”
“I know I should have asked, but I had no way to get hold of you, and what good is food without dishes?”
“You didn’t need to ask.” He shoved one hand in his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “I got this for you. It’s prepaid, and with the number blocked, no one you call can press Redial and get you. It doesn’t have all the bells and whistles, but it’ll do what you need. Don’t give the number to anyone, not even Evie. Not even your mom. I’ll let you know if you get calls to return, and you can do those from my phone, okay?”
She reached for the phone, and he caught her fingers, pulling her closer. She didn’t even pretend to resist. “Keep this with you all the time,” he said, pressing the cell into her hand. “I’ve got a few numbers programmed already—mine, Jack’s—he should be back tomorrow—and Gus. He’s head of security here. His office is on the second floor. If anything happens, call all three of us. You know how to use it?”
She pulled her hand free and studied the phone. It was simpler than her smartphone—a good thing since she’d discovered she wasn’t as clearheaded in a panic as she’d always thought she would be. “Yeah, I can figure it out.”
“Good. Let me change clothes, and I’ll help you in here.”
Martine made sure she did understand the workings of the phone before sliding it into her pocket and going back to work. She hung the damp dish towel over an empty box, took a new one from its drawer and filled the sink again with hot sudsy water. The next box she opened held mixing and storag
e bowls, along with lids. Surely in one of the remaining cartons, she would find some cookware. She could easily see Jimmy preferring standing over a smoky grill with a beer in hand, but the only thing the apartment lacked was a balcony to hold said grill.
He returned from the bedroom wearing jeans, a snug-fitting T-shirt and socks. Even though, in deference to the situation, his gun was still holstered on his belt, something about him without shoes struck her as so...homey. So ridiculously right and cozy. He smelled good enough to wake her girlie hormones if they hadn’t gone on high alert just at the sight of him, spicy and woodsy and rich.
“You know, I washed the dishes before I packed them.” He lifted a milky-green bowl from the second sink, rinsed and began to dry it.
“I suspected as much. But who knows how long they’ve been in these boxes, or where the packing paper came from?” She gave him a sidelong look. “I do like your dishes, though.”
He opened cabinet doors, looking for a place to set the bowl, then frowned. “You haven’t seen them yet.”
“Those pretty floral plates?”
“Oh. My sister made those. Running the family business and homeschooling the kids don’t keep her busy enough, so she also dabbles in stuff. She made ’em, painted ’em, glazed ’em, fired ’em...whatever all it takes. She said I should use those instead of my real dishes.”
“What’s wrong with your real dishes?” Martine could make a pretty good guess, considering the other surprises she’d gotten about him this week.
He dropped the towel, brought in another box, lifted out a dinner plate and handed it to her. It felt as delicate as a fine sheet of ice, as if she dropped it, God forbid, it would float rather than fall to the floor. The colors were delicate, pale flowers on a creamy background, and the whole glowed with a lovely translucency.
She very carefully handed it back. “You were eating off those?”
He set it back in its nest in the box. “They’re dishes. That’s what they’re meant for.”
“No, by the time they get that old, they’re meant for display and maybe a once-in-a-lifetime celebration.” She narrowed her gaze. “I bet your mother’s holding on to any other family heirlooms you’ve inherited, isn’t she?”
He grinned, not the least bit embarrassed. “I tell her I could use the dining table because I don’t have a desk and that the cabinet that goes with the dishes would make a great place to store stuff like files, footballs, shoes, but she just turns pale and pretends she doesn’t hear me.”
Martine appreciated the affection in his voice when he talked about his mother. She knew so many adults who had little to no relationship with their parents—Evie, Jack, Landry, Reece and Jones. Even, when it came to her father, herself. Jimmy, though, seemed on good terms with all of his family, and she admired that.
Admired him.
More than admired him.
The sun had abandoned New Orleans, there was snow on the ground, and Martine Broussard was falling in love with Jimmy DiBiase. Had stranger things ever happened?
* * *
Jimmy hadn’t spent enough time in the apartment to have gotten accustomed to being there alone—he’d moved in only on Sunday—but he did wonder, after a while, why it didn’t seem odd that Martine was there. He’d never been the sort to entertain at home. From the time his social life had begun, dinner with a date had always meant going out; quiet evenings at home were at her home; his bed was best for sleeping in alone. Even Alia, in the months before they got married, hadn’t been to his place more than a handful of times and had never spent the night there. Though, to be honest, that was her choice as much as his.
But it felt right to have Martine here. She made it feel really and truly like home, and that was a sensation he hadn’t had in longer than he could remember.
They had fixed dinner and eaten it, washed the dishes and returned the kitchen to its neat state. In her unpacking, Martine had found the coffee maker, and now they each had a cup, dosed with enough Irish cream to warm from the inside out, and the gas logs in the fireplace crackled and popped without the hassle—or the charm—of the real thing.
“So.” Martine shifted at the other end of the couch, kicking off her shoes and turning to face him with her feet tucked underneath the cushion separating them. “The places you’ve chosen to live in the past are legendary for their undesirability. Why make such a drastic change?”
“I don’t know. Maybe subconsciously I knew I would meet a damsel in distress who would need a safe place to stay.”
The look she gave him was skeptical. “You already knew me.”
“Not really. We’d already met. There’s a difference.”
She acknowledged that with a nod, then her eyebrows drew together. “A damsel in distress?”
“Hey, if it weren’t for the saying, I wouldn’t even know what a damsel is. I would just say ‘a white female, five feet eight inches, one hundred and thirty pounds with black hair and brown eyes.’” And nice breasts. A narrow waist. Sweet hips, an incredible butt and legs that stretched all the way up to her eyebrows.
He wondered if she would object to the weight he’d guessed—he’d learned a long time ago on the job that little was more dangerous than guessing a woman’s weight and getting it wrong—but any dissatisfaction she might have felt didn’t stop her from smiling.
She was so damn beautiful when she smiled.
“You ever forget you're a cop?”
He didn't need to follow her gaze to the pistol on his hip. After so many years, it was second nature. Its absence would be more unusual than its presence. “No. I'm always prepared.”
That earned him another smile. “Sometimes I think you like to play the stereotypical jock. Big, dumb, likes to party, all about easy sex and lots of it, not the sharpest knife in the drawer.”
“Play?” He drank from his mug, watching her over the rim.
“Yeah, play. As in ‘pretend to be.’ You’re a lot smarter, a lot more mature and empathetic, than you want people to believe. You cultivate this image, and not very many people get past it.”
What did it say for a forty-year-old man that being called mature and empathetic was one of the best compliments he’d ever been given? And considering its source... Sweet damnation, Martine considered him mature. Nothing she could have said—not even Let’s get out of these clothes and into bed—could have made him feel better.
“It’s not an image so much,” he admitted, dragging his fingers through his hair, “as who I really was. It took me a while to grow up. I’m an only son in a family that loves its daughters but really loves its sons. I was top ranked in football in high school. I played college ball for four years. I’ve been a cop for eighteen years, and just like football, the job has its groupies. Things have always come pretty easy, and I’ve always been...shallow, except when it comes to my job.”
That wasn’t as easy to admit as he’d thought it would be. It wasn’t as if she didn’t already know he’d had about as much emotional depth as a puddle after a rainstorm. She’d spent six years hating him because of it. Still, the words were tougher to say out loud than he'd expected. If things didn't feel so damn right between them, he wasn't sure he could have gotten them out.
She leaned over to set her coffee on the floor, then rested one arm on the back of the sofa, her cheek pressed against her fist. Her hair fell forward over one shoulder, catching and reflecting the light from the fire. “What did you major in in college?”
“Football and sex.” It was a flippant answer that came as naturally to him as breathing. Immediately, though, he relented. “General studies. Liberal arts. Not that I’m particularly liberal about anything.”
“Except sex.” There was a lightness to her voice, like none of that mattered anymore. It stirred something in his gut, hard and hot, and sent a flush through his body as if the temperature in
the room had soared.
He set his own coffee down, too, not trusting his hands to remain steady. Not wanting them busy doing anything else. “I used to be. Not anymore.” His voice was husky and thick and no steadier than his nerves that had gone tingly. Like the shock touching the doorknob of the shop gave him, only magnified a million times.
“I believe you.”
“I’m honored.” He was, too. He’d wanted her, been intrigued by her, for so long, but after that disastrous night, he’d thought he didn’t stand a snowflake’s chance in hell. He was sorry it had taken two murders and death threats against her to undo the damage he’d done back then, but he believed something good always came out of the bad. Martine could be his good, and he could be hers.
“Did you ever want to play pro ball?”
“Nah. Football’s too hard on the body after a time, and I didn’t want to spend half my year living, playing or practicing someplace else. New Orleans is home. And I wanted to be a cop. I just had to get a degree to make my parents happy first.”
“And making your parents happy was important?”
“They deserved a little payback for all the time, money and frustration I cost them.”
Had she moved a little closer? It seemed so, but he couldn’t say for sure because somehow, he was closer, too, and he couldn’t remember leaning away from the sofa arm behind him. But there was definitely less than a full cushion between them now, and even that distance disappeared as she shifted onto her knees, then leaned over him.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and touched her mouth to his with no hesitation, no slow buildup, no uncertainty at all. Her tongue slid along between his lips, then dipped inside his mouth and stroked. Hell, yes, it had definitely gotten warmer in the room, like closing-in-on-the-sun at supersonic speed, and his clothes had turned heavy, trapping heat and constraining everything flowing through him all at the same time.
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