Dangerous Embrace

by Nora Roberts

  “I thought a police tail in Acapulco might be inconvenient.”

  “And now that you have finished your own investigation, you bring me this.” He held up the key and examined it. “This which Miss Palmer discovered several days ago. As a lawyer, you must understand the phrase ‘withholding evidence.’”

  “Of course.” Jonas nodded coolly. “But neither Miss Palmer nor myself could know the key was evidence. We speculated, naturally, that it might have belonged to my brother. Withholding a speculation is hardly a crime.”

  “Perhaps not, but it is poor judgment. Poor judgment often translates into an offense.”

  Jonas leaned back in his chair. If Moralas wanted to argue law, they’d argue law. “If the key belonged to my brother, as executor of his estate, it became mine. In any case, once it was proved to me that the key did indeed belong to Jerry, and that the contents of the safe-deposit box were evidence, I brought both the key and a description of the contents to you.”

  “Indeed. And do you also speculate as to how your brother came to possess those particular items?”

  “Yes.”

  Moralas waited a beat, then turned to Liz. “And you, Miss Palmer—you also have your speculations?”

  She had her hands gripped tightly in her lap, but her voice was matter-of-fact and reasonable. “I know that whoever attacked me wanted money, obviously a great deal of money. We found a great deal.”

  “And a bag of what Mr. Sharpe…speculates is cocaine.” Moralas folded his hands on the desk with the key under them. “Miss Palmer, did you at any time see Mr. Jeremiah Sharpe in possession of cocaine?”

  “No.”

  “Did he at any time speak to you of cocaine or drug-trafficking?”

  “No, of course not. I would have told you.”

  “As you told me about the key?” When Jonas started to protest, Moralas waved him off. “I will need a list of your customers for the past six weeks, Miss Palmer. Names and, wherever possible, addresses.”

  “My customers? Why?”

  “It’s more than possible that Mr. Sharpe used your shop for his contacts.”

  “My shop.” Outraged, she stood up. “My boats? Do you think he could have passed drugs under my nose without me being aware?”

  Moralas took out a cigar and studied it. “I very much hope you were unaware, Miss Palmer. You will bring me the list of clients by the end of the week.” He glanced at Jonas. “Of course, you are within your rights to demand a warrant. It will simply slow down the process. And I, of course, am within my rights to hold Miss Palmer as a material witness.”

  Jonas watched the pale blue smoke circle toward the ceiling. It was tempting to call Moralas’s bluff simply as an exercise in testing two ends of the law. And in doing so, he and the captain could play tug-of-war with Liz for hours. “There are times, Captain, when it’s wiser not to employ certain rights. I think I’m safe in saying that the three of us in this room want basically the same thing.” He rose and flicked his lighter at the end of Moralas’s cigar. “You’ll have your list, Captain. And more.”

  Moralas lifted his gaze and waited.

  “Pablo Manchez,” Jonas said, and was gratified to see Moralas’s eyes narrow.

  “What of Manchez?”

  “He’s on Cozumel. Or was,” Jonas stated. “My brother met with him several times in local bars and clubs. You may also be interested in David Merriworth, an American working out of Acapulco. Apparently he’s the one who put my brother onto his contacts in Cozumel. If you contact the authorities in the States, you’ll find that Merriworth has an impressive rap sheet.”

  In his precise handwriting, Moralas noted down the names, though he wasn’t likely to forget them. “I appreciate the information. However, in the future, Mr. Sharpe, I would appreciate it more if you stayed out of my way. Buenas tardes, Miss Palmer.”

  Moments later, Liz strode out to the street. “I don’t like being threatened. That’s what he was doing, wasn’t it?” she demanded. “He was threatening to put me in jail.”

  Very calm, even a bit amused, Jonas lit a cigarette. “He was pointing out his options, and ours.”

  “He didn’t threaten to put you in jail,” Liz muttered.

  “He doesn’t worry as much about me as he does about you.”

  “Worry?” She stopped with her hand gripping the handle of Jonas’s rented car.

  “He’s a good cop. You’re one of his people.”

  She looked back toward the police station with a scowl. “He has a funny way of showing it.” A scruffy little boy scooted up to the car and gallantly opened the door for her. Even as he prepared to hold out a hand, Liz was digging for a coin.

  “Gracias.”

  He checked the coin, grinned at the amount and nodded approval. “Buenas tardes, señorita.” Just as gallantly he closed the door for her while the coin disappeared into a pocket.

  “It’s a good thing you don’t come into town often,” Jonas commented.

  “Why?”

  “You’d be broke in a week.”

  Liz found a clip in her purse and pulled back her hair. “Because I gave a little boy twenty-five pesos?”

  “How much did you give the other kid before we went in to Moralas?”

  “I bought something from him.”

  “Yeah.” Jonas swung away from the curb. “You look like a woman who can’t go a day without a box of Chiclets.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “That’s right. Now tell me where I can find the best place for buying ingredients for chili.”

  “You want me to cook for you tonight?”

  “It’ll keep your mind off the rest. We’ve done everything we can do for the moment,” he added. “Tonight we’re going to relax.”

  She would have liked to believe he was right. Between nerves and anger, she was wound tight. “Cooking’s supposed to relax me?”

  “Eating is going to relax you. It’s just an unavoidable circumstance that you have to cook it first.”

  It sounded so absurd that she subsided. “Turn left at the next corner. I tell you what to buy, you buy it, then you stay out of my way.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And you clean up.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Pull over here,” she directed. “And remember, you asked for it.”

  * * *

  Liz never skimped when she cooked, even taking into account that authentic Mexican spices had more zing than the sort sold in the average American supermarket. She’d developed a taste for Mexican food and Yucatán specialties when she’d been a child, exploring the peninsula with her parents. She wasn’t an elaborate cook, and when alone would often make do with a sandwich, but when her heart was in it, she could make a meal that would more than satisfy.

  Perhaps, in a way, she wanted to impress him. Liz found she was able to admit it while she prepared a Mayan salad for chilling. It was probably very natural and harmless to want to impress someone with your cooking. After peeling and slicing an avocado, she found, oddly enough, she was relaxing.

  So much of what she’d done in the past few days had been difficult or strange. It was a relief to make a decision no more vital than the proper way to slice her fruits and vegetables. In the end, she fussed with the arrangement a bit more, pleased with the contrasting colors of greens and oranges and cherry tomatoes. It was, she recalled, the only salad she could get Faith to eat because it was the only one Faith considered pretty enough. Liz didn’t realize she was smiling as she began to sauté onions and peppers. She added a healthy dose of garlic and let it all simmer.

  “It already smells good,” Jonas commented as he strode through the doorway.

  She only glanced over her shoulder. “You’re supposed to stay out of my way.”

  “You cook, I take care of the table.”

  Liz only shrugged and turned back to the stove. She measured, stirred and spiced until the kitchen was filled with a riot of scent. The sauce, chunky with meat and
vegetables, simmered and thickened on low heat. Pleased with herself, she wiped her hands on a cloth and turned around. Jonas was sitting comfortably at the table watching her.

  “You look good,” he told her. “Very good.”

  It seemed so natural, their being together in the kitchen with a pot simmering and a breeze easing its way through the screen. It made her remember how hard it was not to want such simple things in your life. Liz set the cloth down and found she didn’t know what to do with her hands. “Some men think a woman looks best in front of a stove.”

  “I don’t know. It’s a toss-up with the way you looked at the wheel of a boat. How long does that have to cook?”

  “About a half hour.”

  “Good.” He rose and went to the counter where he’d left two bottles. “We have time for some wine.”

  A little warning signal jangled in her brain. Liz decided she needed a lid for the chili. “I don’t have the right glasses.”

  “I already thought of that.” From a bag beside the bottle, he pulled out two thin-stemmed wineglasses.

  “You’ve been busy,” she murmured.

  “You didn’t like me hovering over you in the market. I had to do something.” He drew out the cork, then let the wine breathe.

  “These candles aren’t mine.”

  He turned to see Liz fiddling with the fringe of one of the woven mats he’d set on the table. In the center were two deep blue tapers that picked up the color in the border of her dishes.

  “They’re ours,” Jonas told her.

  She twisted the fringe around one finger, let it go, then twisted it again. The last time she’d burned candles had been during a power failure. These didn’t look sturdy, but slender and frivolous. “There wasn’t any need to go to all this trouble. I don’t—”

  “Do candles and wine make you uneasy?”

  Dropping the fringe, she let her hands fall to her sides. “No, of course not.”

  “Good.” He poured rich red wine into both glasses. Walking to her, he offered one. “Because I find them relaxing. We did agree to relax.”

  She sipped, and though she wanted to back away, held her ground. “I’m afraid you may be looking for more than I can give.”

  “No.” He touched his glass to hers. “I’m looking for exactly what you can give.”

  Recognizing when she was out of her depth, Liz turned toward the refrigerator. “We can start on the salad.”

  He lit the candles and dimmed the lights. She told herself it didn’t matter. Atmosphere was nothing more than a pleasant addition to a meal.

  “Very pretty,” Jonas told her when she’d mixed the dressing and arranged avocado slices. “What’s it called?”

  “It’s a Mayan salad.” Liz took the first nibble and was satisfied. “I learned the recipe when I worked at the hotel. Actually, that’s where most of my cooking comes from.”

  “Wonderful,” Jonas decided after the first bite. “It makes me wish I’d talked you into cooking before.”

  “A one time only.” She relaxed enough to smile. “Meals aren’t—”

  “Included in the rent,” Jonas finished. “We might negotiate.”

  This time she laughed at him and chose a section of grapefruit. “I don’t think so. How do you manage in Philadelphia?”

  “I have a housekeeper who’ll toss together a casserole on Wednesdays.” He took another bite, enjoying the contrast of crisp greens and spicy dressing. “And I eat out a lot.”

  “And parties? I suppose you go to a lot of parties.”

  “Some business, some pleasure.” He’d almost forgotten what it was like to sit in a kitchen and enjoy a simple meal. “To be honest, it wears a bit. The cruising.”

  “Cruising?”

  “When Jerry and I were teenagers, we might hop in the car on a Friday night and cruise. The idea was to see what teenage girls had hopped in their cars to cruise. The party circuit’s just adult cruising.”

  She frowned a bit because it didn’t seem as glamorous as she’d imagined. “It seems rather aimless.”

  “Doesn’t seem. Is.”

  “You don’t appear to be a man who does anything without a purpose.”

  “I’ve had my share of aimless nights,” he murmured. “You come to a point where you realize you don’t want too many more.” That was just it, he realized. It wasn’t the work, the hours spent closeted with law books or in a courtroom. It was the nights without meaning that left him wanting more. He lifted the wine to top off her glass, but his eyes stayed on hers. “I came to that realization very recently.”

  Her blood began to stir. Deliberately, Liz pushed her wine aside and rose to go to the stove. “We all make decisions at certain points in our lives, realign our priorities.”

  “I have the feeling you did that a long time ago.”

  “I did. I’ve never regretted it.”

  That much was true, he thought. She wasn’t a woman for regrets. “You wouldn’t change it, would you?”

  Liz continued to spoon chili into bowls. “Change what?”

  “If you could go back eleven years and take a different path, you wouldn’t do it.”

  She stopped. From across the room he could see the flicker of candlelight in her eyes as she turned to him. More, he could see the strength that softness and shadows couldn’t disguise. “That would mean I’d have to give up Faith. No, I wouldn’t do it.”

  When she set the bowls on the table, Jonas took her hand. “I admire you.”

  Flustered, she stared down at him. “What for?”

  “For being exactly what you are.”

  CHAPTER 8

  No smooth phrases, no romantic words could have affected her more deeply. She wasn’t used to flattery, but flattery, Liz was sure, could be brushed easily aside by a woman who understood herself. Sincere and simple approval was a different matter. Perhaps it was the candlelight, the wine, the intimacy of the small kitchen in the empty house, but she felt close to him, comfortable with him. Without being aware of it happening, Liz dropped her guard.

  “I couldn’t be anything else.”

  “Yes, you could. I’m glad you’re not.”

  “What are you?” she wondered as she sat beside him.

  “A thirty-five-year-old lawyer who’s just realizing he’s wasted some time.” He lifted his glass and touched it to hers. “To making the best of whatever there is.”

  Though she wasn’t certain she understood him, Liz drank, then waited for him to eat.

  “You could fuel an engine with this stuff.” Jonas dipped his spoon into the chili again and tasted. Hot spice danced on his tongue. “It’s great.”

  “Not too hot for your Yankee stomach?”

  “My Yankee stomach can handle it. You know, I’m surprised you haven’t opened a restaurant, since you can cook like this.”

  She wouldn’t have been human if the compliment hadn’t pleased her. “I like the water more than I like the kitchen.”

  “I can’t argue with that. So you picked this up in the kitchen when you worked at the hotel?”

  “That’s right. We’d take a meal there. The cook would show me how much of this and how much of that. He was very kind,” Liz remembered. “A lot of people were kind.”

  He wanted to know everything—the small details, the feelings, the memories. Because he did, he knew he had to probe with care. “How long did you work there?”

  “Two years. I lost count of how many beds I made.”

  “Then you started your own business?”

  “Then I started the dive shop.” She took a thin cracker and broke it in two. “It was a gamble, but it was the right one.”

  “How did you handle it?” He waited until she looked over at him. “With your daughter?”

  She withdrew. He could hear it in her voice. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I wonder about you.” He kept the tone light, knowing she’d never respond to pressure. “Not many women could have managed all you’ve managed. You w
ere alone, pregnant, making a living.”

  “Does that seem so unusual?” It made her smile to think of it. “There are only so many choices, aren’t there?”

  “A great many people would have made a different one.”

  With a nod, she accepted. “A different one wouldn’t have been right for me.” She sipped her wine as she let her mind drift back. “I was frightened. Quite a bit at first, but less and less as time went on. People were very good to me. It might have been different if I hadn’t been lucky. I went into labor when I was cleaning room 328.” Her eyes warmed as if she’d just seen something lovely. “I remember holding this stack of towels in my hand and thinking, ‘Oh God, this is it, and I’ve only done half my rooms.’” She laughed and went back to her meal. Jonas’s bowl sat cooling.

  “You worked the day your baby was born?”

  “Of course. I was healthy.”

  “I know men who take the day off if they need a tooth filled.”

  She laughed again and passed him the crackers. “Maybe women take things more in stride.”

  Only some women, he thought. Only a few exceptional women. “And afterward?”

  “Afterward I was lucky again. A woman I worked with knew Señora Alderez. When Faith was born, her youngest had just turned five. She took care of Faith during the day, so I was able to go right back to work.”

  The cracker crumbled in his hand. “It must have been difficult for you.”

  “The only hard part was leaving my baby every morning, but the señora was wonderful to Faith and to me. That’s how I found this house. Anyway, one thing led to another. I started the dive shop.”

  He wondered if she realized that the more simply she described it, the more poignant it sounded. “You said the dive shop was a gamble.”

  “Everything’s a gamble. If I’d stayed at the hotel, I never would have been able to give Faith what I wanted to give her. And I suppose I’d have felt cheated myself. Would you like some more?”

  “No.” He rose to take the bowls himself while he thought out how to approach her. If he said the wrong thing, she’d pull away again. The more she told him, the more he found he needed to know. “Where did you learn to dive?”