by Alana Lorens
“Don’t need a mouthpiece to deal with you.” He put his right hand in the front pocket of his suit jacket.
In a move born more of instinct than intent, Suzanne raised her solid-sided black briefcase so it blocked her torso. If he was going to take a shot—
“Suzanne!”
The interruption drew her attention, as well as that of Mr. Wachowski. Coming up the steps from the sidewalk, almost as though he were riding a white steed, was Nick Sansone. He ascended to the step where she stood, then took one more step, so he was almost directly between them. His trained eyes flicked between her to the man on the stairs above her and back.
“Everything all right here?” he asked.
Where had he come from?
Suzanne eyed Wachowski. His pale blue eyes never released her gaze, but she thought she saw doubt in them now. What did he have in his pocket? It could be a gun. It could be a wallet full of family photos. She cleared a throat that had tightened beyond speech and took a deep breath. “I think everything’s fine. I believe Mr. Wachowski was just leaving.”
Wachowski studied Sansone, jaw working as he decided what to do. Nick wasn’t in uniform, but something about him conveyed an air of authority. Even Suzanne could feel it. Nick must be over six feet tall, those five or six inches’ difference always forcing her to look up at him, putting her at a disadvantage.
What was he doing here—just when she needed him?
The other man coughed and took his hand out of his pocket. It was empty. “Yeah. Yeah, I was just going home. It’s been a damned long day.” Wachowski looked at her a long moment, then turned and walked away, taking a diagonal path away from them down the steps. He didn’t look back.
Suzanne breathed a sigh of relief. Nick didn’t miss it.
“So there was more here than met the eye,” he said, scrutinizing her face. “What did he have in his pocket?”
Was there any point in ignoring him? No doubt the man was an expert interrogator. He might even be better than Suzanne herself. “Honestly? I don’t know.”
“Did he make any threats?”
“No.” She looked down at the traffic passing by, something concrete and normal. Not like angry litigants with potential weapons. Or attractive police lieutenants.
“I can have someone investigate if—”
“It’s fine,” she said, an edge in her voice pitched to the end-of-discussion level. “We were in court all day. We’re both tired. Can we leave it at that?”
He searched her face for more clues, apparently finding none. “All right. You know him, I don’t.” His alert stance relaxed, just a little, but his eyes were warm with concern for her.
Why was he worried about her? Annoyance provoked her sharp tongue. “You’re here late,” she said.
“So are you.” His attention moved away from her, and he watched the street below them, particularly in the direction Mr. Wachowski had gone.
“Two people, after hours in the courthouse, at the same time. Heck of a coincidence.” She started walking down the steps.
He followed her. “Not really. I was waiting for you.”
An imaginary grasshopper twitched to life in her stomach. “You need a divorce lawyer?” she asked without turning around. She didn’t want him to see her expression.
“Not at all. I was just heading down to Mama Rosa's for some lasagna,” he said. “I thought you might need dinner, too. Interested in Italian tonight?”
“I was planning to go back to the office. So much to do.” A tiny voice in her heart berated her for putting him off. She even had a babysitter in place. What was the harm?
“You have to walk the dog?”
“No.”
“Expecting more trouble?”
“No!” She stopped and turned around to face him. “I can handle myself, Lieutenant. Thank you so much for your interest.”
Then, as the traffic light at the corner changed, the noise level diminished for just a moment, but it was long enough for both of them to hear her stomach growl like a wild tiger on the prowl. She stared at the concrete steps, wishing she could disappear right through them.
“Put my mind at ease, counselor. No hassles, I promise. Just dinner,” he said softly.
She took a deep breath and surrendered to the hands of fate. “Just dinner.”
Chapter Three
He couldn’t believe she’d actually agreed to a date. Well, not a date. Dinner.
But he wanted to consider it a date.
He’d watched her for some time. It was more than just his natural attraction to redheads. He found something more compelling in her behavior, her demeanor. He found her different from the rest of the ambulance chasers he encountered in his work.
During their midwinter case, he witnessed her inner fire and passion for what was right, whether or not it fell squarely within the law. She never let opposing counsel walk over her. She even used humor as a tool to pry open judges’ hearts to let her pleas inside.
When the case concluded, he wanted to see her—unprofessionally—but she created a distinct distance between them that dissuaded him. He tried to put her out of his mind. She kept re-appearing. Every so often, he caught a glimpse of her in the court buildings, or in her favorite lunch spot in the inner courtyard of the old castle, and those feelings would bubble up again. He couldn’t forget her.
Not that he hadn’t tried. Brother officers used his fascination with the standoffish attorney to rib him without mercy. A lawyer and a cop? Might as well be oil and water, one working to get bad people locked up, and the other working just as hard to set them free again. It didn’t matter that she worked in a different specialty. His associates lumped them all together as a waste of educated flesh. It could never work. Just asking for trouble. Who needed trouble?
Nick wasn’t convinced.
Determined, he cultivated the judge’s secretaries, many of whom had a soft spot for him. If she was scheduled to appear, they let him know. He’d put himself in the way of finding her, to ask her out.
And now, she’d finally said yes.
Mama Rosa’s was a cop hangout, a place with good Italian food and checkered red and white tablecloths and candles on the table after dark. He arrived first and took his usual table, chewing over whether he should have taken her somewhere fancier. She was probably used to more upscale places, restaurants with three forks in a setting. He was the kind of guy who ate with his elbows on the table.
He’d offered to drive her, but she wanted her own car. Although it appeared the man with the mysterious pocket had left the scene, he wasn’t convinced it was safe to leave her. She’d finally allowed him to walk her to her car in the lot. He’d told her how to get here. But a half-hour later, she still hadn’t arrived.
Maybe I should have insisted.
Maybe she wasn’t coming.
He adjusted his posture, at a loss to explain why his seat wasn’t as comfortable as usual. He loosened his tie, then took it off, shoving it in his pocket. He unbuttoned his top button. Perhaps she’d find the casual look appealing, looser. Maybe she’d relax. It sure as hell made him feel better.
He leaned forward on his chair, sitting on the edge, just short of a fidget. Concetta, one of the older ladies who’d been serving at Mama Rosa’s as long as Nick could remember, stopped by the table to ask if he needed anything. “You’re watching the door awful close, Nicky. Your boss coming? Or a woman?” She studied him, dark birdlike eyes boring into him.
“Is it that obvious?” He allowed a laugh, finding it came with a wash of relief. Suzanne owed him nothing. If she didn’t come—
Then she stepped through the door.
She’d shed her brown jacket. Her yellow dress, sleeveless, exposed more of her skin than he’d ever seen. He thought she’d lost her professional pumps, too, brown sandals on her feet instead.
More stunning was the shoulder-length red mane she’d released from whatever semi-magic pinning procedure women used to twist their locks into knots. Loose arou
nd her shoulders, her hair was beautiful.
“Oh, ho!” the waitress said. Something in her voice triggered his notice. He looked away from Suzanne, tracking Concetta’s quick exit. What was she up to? She scurried off into the back. A moment later, a group of curious faces popped up at the pass-through window from the kitchen.
Great. An audience. Just what I need. Intent on his original purpose, he stood up to greet Suzanne. “Counselor. I thought perhaps you’d gotten lost. Or that your…admirer…had returned.”
Her cheeks turned the faintest shade of pink. “No, Lieutenant, your directions were fine. I took the long way around so I could wind down a little.”
As she sat down, he held her chair and carefully pushed it in. “I might have been here before. About a thousand times.”
“A thousand? Really?”
“Maybe.” He chuckled, feeling like he’d turned a police-issue flashlight on himself. “My dad was a cop, and my grandfather was a cop, and his father was right off the boat from Italy. So I practically grew up in this neighborhood.”
She smiled, and the smile gave her whole face a warm glow, as if someone had lit a candle inside her.
Concetta brought two menus and poured icy water into short, heavy glasses. “Vito made lasagna today,” she said.
Nick glanced across the table at Suzanne. “You don’t want to pass up Vito’s lasagna.”
Her gaze flicked across the menu, then she handed it back to Concetta. “Of course not.”
“Two lasagna.” Concetta scribbled on her pad. “He’s got fresh bread in the oven. I’ll bring some out. Wine?”
“Merlot?” he asked, and Suzanne nodded.
“Got just the thing.” Concetta grinned and waddled back to the kitchen. Nick glanced in that direction and caught a glimpse of all the would-be mother hens clucking up a storm in the back. They’d fussed over him since he was a boy eating meals with his grandfather; Nick was sure he remained their topic of conversation. He and Suzanne.
Fortunately, Suzanne seemed oblivious to the buzz. “So, a legacy cop,” she said. “Your family must be proud you’re a lieutenant.”
Nick nodded. “Best day of my dad’s life, I think. Even better than the day I graduated from Pitt.”
“You went to Pitt? My alma mater, too.”
“Not in the same class, I’m sure.” Nick was forty-five; he’d always thought of Suzanne as at least ten years younger.
The fingers of her left hand ran lightly over the fork, cushioned in the folded white napkin on the table. “Well, I went for law school. We wouldn’t have seen each other anyway.”
“Probably not. It was twenty years ago, before I joined the force.”
She looked up, surprised. “I was just finishing up. But I was sure you were older than I am.” She hesitated, bit her lip. “I just turned forty.”
“Not so much. I’m forty-five.” There, he said it. He hated thinking about the passing of the years. So many of them, so many alone. An awkward silence between them preceded the arrival of the wine, as well as hot bread with the strong aroma of garlic and cheese. He uncorked the bottle with a well-practiced hand, then poured them each half a glass.
He suppressed the urge to ask about her love life. “Where’d you go for undergrad?” he asked instead.
“Penn State.” She took a sip of the wine, holding the cool edge of the glass against her lip for a moment.
“Business major?” he guessed.
“Oh, no! Sociology. Headed for a career involving ‘Would you like fries with that?’” She laughed. “Graduate school was pretty much a given.”
“So you’ve been bent on saving the world all along.”
She shrugged. “Some of it, at least.”
He could understand the sentiment. “I believe that’s what I do, too. God knows there isn’t much other reason to be on the street some days. I want to know I’m making a difference for some man, woman or child every time I step out on the street.”
He waited for her to mock him, as other women had over the years. Many women wanted to date a police officer. Some found it a ticket to an “E” ride, great benefits, good pay, the opportunity for them to hang out with the girls at the outlet malls all day and get their nails done. Some, with violent men in their pasts, thought being with a cop would protect them. Some just were cop groupies, taking the thrill and excitement of the profession by proxy.
But most denigrated his genuine need to serve as corny and fake.
Suzanne didn’t poke fun. She skewered him with a dissecting gaze. After a few silent moments, she ostensibly accepted him at face value. “Did you always want to be a cop?”
“Sure. I mean, the family history and all. Guess I never wanted to be anything else. Except an astronaut.” He grinned.
“You? Roger Ramjet? Hard to believe.” She laughed softly, and he thought the cool distance in her eyes mellowed. Maybe he had a chance with her.
“More Elroy Jetson, I think. You know, visions of the future, all of us with jetpacks to get where we wanted to go, whatever’s ‘out there.’” He gestured toward the ceiling. He saw her about to laugh and gulped some wine.
Their salads arrived, and he was grateful for the distraction. By the time they’d finished those, then the bread, and the stacked tomato, noodle and cheese bit of heaven that defined Vito’s lasagna, he’d discovered her to be an educated and interesting companion.
They’d talked their way through politics and religion. They’d danced through current events, books, movies, and a shared love of 1970s music. They’d discussed parents and the difficulties of being adult children.
Everything, essentially, except their possible feelings about each other.
Neither seemed inclined to bring that up.
All the while, he supposed she was appraising him. Her gaze perched often on his lips as he spoke, almost as warm as a touch. He imagined what they would taste like, those soft lips. He was ready. One of them had to make the first move.
As they sat over coffee and the remains of a shared tiramisu, he decided to go for it. He leaned forward, speaking quietly, almost a whisper.
“What?” she asked. When she leaned forward to hear him, he kissed her.
“Hey!” she said, pulling back. Expression alarmed, she picked up her napkin, holding it in her hand on the table before her, almost like a shield.
Damn it.
Immediately contrite, he said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” He sat straight, and raised his hands. “Sorry. I had to get it out of my system. I’ve been thinking about kissing you ever since you walked in here. You look amazing.”
She eyed him, retracted her hand and its napkin into her lap. “Well…thank you.” Her eyes slipped away, but a smile tried to hide in the corner of her lips.
He reached for his coffee cup, fiddling with its handle. “Thank you for not slapping me.”
“And risk being charged with battery on a police officer? Not likely.” Suzanne took a deep breath, then let it out. “I’m a big girl, Nick. I like to make informed decisions, that’s all.” She stood up. “Thank you for dinner.”
He awkwardly rose to his feet, too, chagrined his impulsive move had brought the evening to a close. “You’re very welcome. It’s been great. Suzanne, really, I’m sorry. I’d love to see you again.”
“You know, I’d like that, too.” She studied him a moment, then leaned down and kissed him. “Good night, Lieutenant.” She headed for the door.
Off balance, he sank back into his chair. Concetta was at his elbow with a coffee carafe before he could even form a sentence.
“She’s not Italian,” she scolded.
“With that hair? I doubt it.” He laughed.
“A Mick…What your ma would say, rest her soul.” She clucked her tongue. “But, Nicky, that one is quality,” she said with a smile. “The dress…those earrings. She’s got money, right?”
“Huh? I guess, yeah. She’s a lawyer.” Nick was still mulling over her kiss, hoping it meant wh
at he thought it did.
“A lawyer?” She turned back to the kitchen, calling out, “A lawyer!” The watching faces lit up with approval like a Christmas display.
“Concetta.” He held his hand over the cup as she was about to pour. “I’ve had enough. Got to be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow.” He gave her three twenties. “Keep the change.”
Concetta grinned and patted him on the arm. “You’re a good boy, Nicky. I hope this one sticks.”
“Yeah. So do I.” As his face twitched into a goofy smile, he wandered off toward the door.
Definitely hope this one sticks. She’s worth it.
Chapter Four
When Madeleine Morgan arrived on Friday morning, she appeared every bit the pampered politician’s wife. The earlier panic seemed under control. Her hair was coiffed, the blue suit expensive, and she even wore pale lipstick. But dark half-circles under her eyes and the ragged edges of her polished nails told a different story.
Donna gave her the standard intake form on a clipboard, which Madeleine filled out while clutching a large brown envelope with a dried coffee stain on the front. Suzanne hoped the envelope contained the documents she had requested. She stole a peek at Maddie, then went back to her office, pacing while she waited, the office seeming smaller the more she walked.
She’d rented the space before Carson Street emerged as one of the hottest nightlife areas in Pittsburgh, and she’d been lucky to have signed a long term lease. The office was in the back of the building’s second floor, and the broad window looked out toward the Monongahela River. At one point in time, tenants might have been able to see the river from the window, but the area between Carson Street and the river had gradually built up with shops and warehouses, blocking the view.
She had four good-sized rooms, the largest of which she’d taken for her own office, its walls lined with books she hardly ever used now that most of her research was done online. Behind her grandmother’s desk sat Suzanne’s worn black leather chair, a hulking bit of furniture that, after ten years, molded around her bottom. A pair of upholstered loveseats with a small gray print sat diagonal to one another. That was where Suzanne preferred to interview her clients. The “family” setting seemed more intimate, and more likely to put clients at ease when discussing sensitive personal, even shameful, matters.