“Step aside, please. No comment. Step aside. Coming through. No comment.”
All but one pesky cameraman let her through. The cameraman walked backward, filming as he went while Lucie forged ahead, denying them a statement.
Maybe he could have gotten the hint. No. Freaking. Comment.
Being careful not to bump him—she’d learned that lesson aeons ago when Joey wound up accused of assault for putting his hand on a reporter who’d gotten too close to Dad—she swerved, hustling toward the shop’s door.
Head up, Lucie plowed through the crowd, the voices melding, building to a crescendo of unintelligible shouts. A reporter jumped into her path, and she threw her arm out.
“No comment. Please move. No comment.”
She cleared a small path to Coco Barknell, and a photographer standing to the left of the doorway snapped pictures. Click, click, click.
Look away. Ignore him. A few more feet. That was all she needed.
Two doors down, a crowd began to gather at Petey’s. Oh, no. If Dad’s crew came outside, she’d have a total mess. They’d take one look at the cameraman bullying her, and someone would lose their mind.
Most likely, her father.
Get inside.
She dug her keys from her front pocket, her fingers shivering as she stabbed at the lock and missed.
“Step back, folks. Step back.”
He’s here. Lucie whirled around just as Tim pushed through the front row of reporters. He’s here. Relief poured over her, an instant depressurization. She’d like to kiss him right there in front of the gang of reporters. Wouldn’t that be a great lead story?
“Hiya,” he said.
His giant hand came around her shoulder and settled over the key still dangling in the lock.
“You’re okay,” he whispered, unlocking the door.
Tears bubbled in her eyes, and her chest heaved because, holy cow, Tim was here.
Helping her. Taking care of her. Supporting her.
“Thank you,” she said. “You have no idea . . .”
Tim swung the door open. “You’re welcome. Let’s get inside.”
He locked the door behind them—for all the good that did. The reporters and cameramen lined up across the front of the plate-glass window, their hungry eyes peering in.
Her back to the windows, she shook her head. “This place is a total fishbowl. Now they’ll stand out there and watch.”
Always the calm one, Tim slid his hands into his pockets. “So we’ll go in back.”
Back room. Inspired thought. She had shades on those windows, and at the end of the short hallway the hideous old saloon doors had been replaced by a lovely raised paneled pine door. That sucker would shut out the gawkers.
Lucie waved one finger and marched past him. “Perfect.”
Tim followed, closing the door behind him, and Lucie bent at the waist, bracing her hands on her thighs.
“So,” he said, “good morning to you.”
At that, Lucie smiled. Thank you for bringing me this man. She straightened up and slapped both hands over her chest. What she wanted, truly, was to step into the fold of his arm, wrap herself around him and just snuggle in.
But with the chaos she’d brought him, he might be here to dump her.
And who could blame him after this reporter fiasco? One thing a cop didn’t need was bad press for his girlfriend. This life. She couldn’t take it anymore, the running, the proving herself, again and again and again. The tiring emotional zigzagging every time she thought she’d prevail in finally showing people that she’d grown to be an educated and driven woman. A woman who valued independence and honesty and hard work.
Who valued life as a successful—and legitimate— businesswoman.
Yet, here she was, locked in the back room of the old Carlucci’s shoe store, just down the street from Petey’s, that damned luncheonette where her father ran his illegal activities. And right outside a gaggle of press people wanted her to comment on being a suspect in the theft of a slice of movie history.
No matter what action she took or how much she denied it, the truth would be buried, way down deep, under all that crap she fed herself about rising above. All there, rooted in her.
Lucie Rizzo.
Mob princess.
She sucked in a breath. Wow. Wow, wow, wow. All this time, she’d been fighting it. Denying it. Avoiding it.
No use.
She could either buckle under the pressure of the stolen dress, the reporters, the gossip or she could fight back.
And one thing about Rizzos, they knew how to fight. Tim stepped forward, eyes slightly narrowed as he studied her face. “Luce? What’s happening right now? You look a little nuts.”
She bobbed her head. “I’m . . .” What? What did she feel when it came to Tim?
She knew.
The constant worry, the ridiculous self-protection about him dumping her, had to stop. She wanted him in her life. Period. All the rest had to go away.
Tim wrapped his hand around her wrist and squeezed. “Luce, what is it?”
She smiled. “I’m . . . just . . . so happy to see you right now.”
Standing in Lucie’s quasi storage/break room, Tim fought the urge to play Superman. Lucie, he’d quickly learned, had signals. Her dipped head and bowed shoulders were the give-me-a-second signal.
Still hanging on to her wrist, he waited. His gaze went to a red bolt of fabric sitting amongst other fabric samples, organized by color and pattern, filling half of a shelving unit against the wall. No doubt Lucie had sorted them. Had to love an organized woman. The remaining half of the shelves contained office supplies and dog-related items—poop bags, treats, bolts of fabric, collars—all of it neatly stacked.
They’d maximized the space with the shelving units leaving the opposite end of the room for the countertop complete with a sink, a microwave and coffee pot. A round, oak table with four chairs completed the setup.
A few months ago, the room had basically been a dumping ground for the old owners. Now, the scent of fresh paint still hung in the air, and the newly tiled floors shined. Lucie had made that happen.
Nothing stopped her. Ever.
Except maybe a crowd of reporters.
She lifted her head. The ready signal.
Instinctively, he knew there were things she didn’t tell him. He hadn’t nailed it yet, but something in her body language—the stiffness maybe—changed when she held something back.
He never stewed over it. For the most part, Lucie defaulted to honesty, and he trusted her. If there were things she didn’t tell him, there were reasons. And those reasons, more than likely, had to do with his job and compromising him.
That, he respected. Plenty of people would drag him into their drama knowing full well he could lose his career.
Not Lucie.
She’d never—as much as he sometimes wanted it—need a man to fight her battles.
“Well,” he said, pulling her in for a hug. “I’m happy to see you, too.” He lingered for a minute, cupped the back of her head in his hand and breathed in the familiar and sometimes excruciating cucumber scent of her soap. He wanted her. Physically. Emotionally. Every way. But she hadn’t been ready.
He kissed the top of her head before backing away and meeting her gaze. “I’m sorry about the reporters. I heard it on the news this morning and came straight here.”
“Did someone leak my name?”
Of course someone leaked her name. The lack of movement on a case that should have been a slam dunk would frustrate any detective. Tim had to figure out which of the detectives had the most to gain from leaking a potential suspect’s name. He had a pretty good idea. He’d spotted Bickel’s car parked on the corner. The detective sat behind the wheel watching the action as reporters swarmed Lucie, and Tim’s blood boiled over at the possibility that Bickel had resorted to using the media to amp up the pressure on Lucie.
In the court of public opinion, people in this town would easily b
elieve Joe Rizzo’s daughter was a criminal. Just like her father.
On their first date, she’d told him, laid it right out there, that she struggled to separate herself from her father’s reputation.
At first, he’d thought she was being neurotic, worrying too much.
Now? With this latest development, he got it.
And it pissed him off.
Criminals deserved whatever they got. But good people? Honest, hardworking people? They shouldn’t be crucified in the press. No matter their last name.
“I’ll get into it. See if it came from my department.”
If it did, he’d. . . . Hell, he didn’t know what he’d do.
Something.
“Okay, thanks.” She paused, squeezed her eyes closed.
He should wait again. Let her sort through it. But, hell on earth, how much of this waiting crap could he do?
With one finger, he tipped her face up. “Talk to me.”
She blinked once, twice, three times and tried to force her chin down, to look away. To hide.
Nothing doing. He nudged her chin again. “Talk to me.”
“I feel like . . . there are things I should tell you.”
“But?”
“I don’t want to involve you.”
He smiled. “Thank you. But I’m a big boy. Tell me what you’ve got, and I’ll figure out if I should be in the middle.”
She pointed to the table and chairs. “We’ll need to sit down for this.”
At that, Tim laughed. Couldn’t help it. Without a doubt, life with Lucie Rizzo would never be boring.
11
Lucie slid into the chair Tim pulled out for her then eyed the cold, empty coffee pot. All this without a fresh hit of caffeine. Twisted torture.
If she had to confess, she’d damn sure need coffee. She smacked her hand on the table and hopped out of her chair. “How about some coffee? I’ll make it strong, just for you. I swear, I don’t know how you drink that sludge.”
“Sugar.”
“What?”
“I load it up with sugar. And you’re stalling.”
From the overhead cabinet she grabbed the bag of fancy coffee Ro liked and started scooping. As she prepped the pot, her mind drifted to Sunday dinners when she was a kid.
The memory produced a burst of laughter.
“What’s funny?”
She filled the pot with water, getting to eye level and confirming ten cups. “I was thinking about my grandfather. My dad’s dad.”
Whoopsie, a little too much water. She dumped a wee bit from the pot. Perfect.
“When I was a kid we’d have big family dinners every Sunday. One o’clock. If you were late, too bad, they locked you out. My cousins would all be there, too. Twenty-five people in my gram’s basement.”
“That sounds fun.”
“It was. After dinner, my grandfather always had to have a cup of coffee. If it didn’t land in front of him within five minutes of the plates being removed, he’d start screaming.” Lucie cleared her throat, squinted her eyes and channeled Grandpa Joe’s deep bass voice. “For the love of Christ, can I get a cup of Sanka?”
O’Hottie laughed, sending her already tortured emotions on a swooning spree.
“How old were you?”
Lucie hit the button on the coffee pot and rested a hip against the counter. “Maybe seven or eight.”
She missed those days. Back before she understood what her father did for a living. He’d always been gone at night. Always. Working, Mom would say.
“Sounds like fun.”
“It was fun. I was young then.” She slid back into her chair, propped her chin in her hand. “Sometimes I want to be seven again. When I was seven, I didn’t know what I didn’t know.”
“You mean about your dad?”
“Back then I was his little girl. I loved spending time with him. You know, he’s wicked funny.”
The corner of Tim’s mouth lifted. “Your dad?”
“Yeah. He tells the best stories, and you never quite know if they’re true or not. At least until he gets to the end. If it’s not true, at the very end of the story he does this quirking thing with his lips and then we all throw napkins at him because he bamboozled us.”
The good stuff.
That’s what she needed to hang on to. For years she’d focused on the negatives, always seeing her father as the villain, the man who’d humiliated his family, the man who’d left his wife alone while he’d spent years—off and on—in jail.
Yes, he was all those unsavory things. No arguing it, but there were good things, too. The roof over their heads, the making sure his wife and kids had money while he was locked up. The unwillingness to allow people to mess with his family.
“I think,” she said, “I need to give myself a break on being mad at my father.”
“I’d imagine it takes a lot of energy.”
“God, you have no idea.” She looked up at him, met his gaze, that beautiful green that made her think of warmth and comfort. “I can’t do this anymore, Tim.”
His head jerked back, his giant shoulders going with it. The stricken look on his face? Not good.
“Luce, what are you saying?”
Oh, no. He thought she was dumping him. She put her hands up, frantically shook her head. “No, no, no. Not you. God, no.”
He dropped his head, let out a grunting laugh. “Phew. That got my attention.”
“I’m so sorry. I can’t believe you thought . . .” She stopped. Shook the thought away. “Never you. I adore you.”
“Well, all right then. Good to know. Ditto on that.”
Good to know, indeed. “I worry all the time. I’m a Rizzo, I will always be a Rizzo. I can’t get away from it and, honestly, I’m not sure I want to. I need to stop trying to prove myself and just be me. Lucie Rizzo.”
Tim sat forward, linked his fingers with hers. “Lucie Rizzo is a hell of a woman. Honey, you can’t control your father, or what people say. Focus on what you can control. Take it from a cop, you’ll be a lot happier.”
“I’m happy now.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. With you. I’m happy. These past couple of months I feel . . . lighter. A fresh start. Every day means discovering something new about you. I like it.”
“Good. So do I.”
“I don’t like keeping things from you.”
“Again, we agree.”
“So, I’ll tell you everything. You’re a big boy, right?”
He snorted, grinning at her for throwing his words back at him. “I am. Tell me what’s on your mind, Luce, and we’ll figure it out.”
Where to even start?
The Cock Heads.
Really, the craziness began with that first meeting. “The day before yesterday, after you talked me off the ledge about Mr. Dukane, I came back to the shop, and Ro was cruising message boards for leads.”
“Roseanne. On a message board?”
“I know. I try not to think about her unleashed on the Internet. Anyway, I thought maybe we should do some research on the Maxmillian dress. You know, see if we could get any leads.”
“Please, no.”
“Hey! I couldn’t help it. I was a suspect and didn’t even do anything wrong.” She paddled her hands. “Anyway, we found a fan group for the movie. The Cock Heads.”
Tim’s head jutted forward. “The Cock Heads?”
“They have a strong membership. Daily meetings all over the city.”
“Wow.”
“I know. We thought we’d check it out.”
“You and Ro?”
Of course, her and Ro. Who else? “Yes. We went to a meeting. That night I texted you that we were out for coffee? We were at the meeting.” Before he could say anything she held her hand up. “I didn’t lie to you. I knew your boss didn’t want you directly involved, and I didn’t want to compromise that. It was easier not to tell you. Then if something came up, you’d have full deniability. That was my intention.”
/> She waited a few seconds, her heart pounding under Tim’s steady gaze. Most likely searching for the lie.
No lies here. Just life with Lucie Rizzo.
When Tim didn’t speak, she forged ahead. “The meeting was uneventful. At least until the next morning.”
“Why do I think this will hurt?”
“It’s not that bad. I got a call from someone named Bill. He said he was at the meeting and could hook us up—oh, hang on, I left out the part about the meeting where Ro mentioned she’d planned on bidding on the dress at the auction.”
“And me without blood pressure meds.”
Ha. Fatalist humor. She pinched his cheek. “You’re funny. So, the next day, this Bill calls me and says that for ten thousand dollars he can hook me up with someone who has the dress.”
“Oh, Luce.”
“Don’t panic. I wasn’t about to give this nut ten grand.”
“You should have told me about it.”
“I wanted to, but—”
“I know. You were worried. Forget it. Tell me the rest.”
The rest. This part could be difficult. She’d just have to stick to the truth. The truth always prevailed. “I thought about going to your detective friend. Bickel.”
“He’s not my friend.”
“Whatever. I didn’t go to him because Bill told me he had a contact at the police, and if I went to them he’d know. I couldn’t risk that dress disappearing.”
“Understood. What happened with Bill?”
As the man in her life, and knowing him and his alpha tendencies, Tim might get a smidge upset that she’d sought help from Eric, clearly another alpha and one investigating the same crime.
“Don’t get mad.”
He sat forward, leaned into his arms and gently rapped his knuckles on the table, his jaw flexing a couple of times.
She might be pushing the good and patient detective to his limits. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. And something you should know. If I get mad, I’ll get over it. I don’t hang on to crap. Tell me what you did.”
This man. Always with the right answer. “I went to Eric Edwards.” When he didn’t respond, she rolled her hand. “The P.I.”
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