NIGHT WATCH

by Carla Neggers

  She walked quickly down Telegraph Hill, toward the water, enjoying the feel of the warm sunshine. It was a clear, glorious October day. She had changed into knee-length walking shorts, a cropped top and walking shoes. Given the sensitivity of her skin to the sun, she’d put on a big floppy hat that hid most of her face. Her jaunts through the city, although relatively infrequent lately given the mountains of projects she’d agreed to undertake, were always welcome. She loved San Francisco’s steep hills and stunning architecture, the clanging of its streetcars, the blaring of its foghorns. Everywhere there was another incredible, breathless view of the bay, the ocean, the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Enjoying the scenery, however, did nothing to distract Rowena from thinking about Eliot Tyhurst and Sergeants Hank Ryan and Joe Scarlatti. They presented a knotty problem indeed, not the sort she was accustomed to solving. She was comfortable among numbers and complex financial systems, analyzing companies and trends and markets for her business clients. She had never claimed ease among the male of the human species.

  She walked and walked, trying to focus on the scenery, trying to tell herself she wasn’t headed where she knew full well she was headed. But soon she could feel the dampness of the waterfront in the air, feel the cool breeze off the bay on her face. The wind grew stronger, and she had to hold on to her hat. Automatically, because this was her city and she knew every street and alley of it, and because she had called up the address on her computer, she turned down the street where Mario’s Bar & Grill was located.

  It was in an older, Victorian-style building with a simple sign giving its name.

  Rowena hesitated, wishing she’d opted for an outfit that would give her a more commanding presence. Or hadn’t come at all.

  But she had come.

  She went through the door—oak and frosted glass— and immediately fought a rush of emotion at the smell of popcorn and sourdough bread, at the sound of laughter and soft jazz, of a life she didn’t lead. She squared her shoulders and approached the gleaming bar. The place wasn’t crowded; it was between lunch and dinner. A plump man in a dark green apron was polishing beer glasses with a clean white cloth.

  “Help you?” he asked.

  “I’m looking for Joe Scarlatti.”

  The man set down his cloth and eyed her. “Won’t he kick himself for not being around for once. Do I know you?”

  “My name’s Rowena Willow.”

  “You’re the one put that slime-mold Tyhurst in jail. Yeah, I know you. Joe didn’t tell me—”

  “Eliot Tyhurst put himself in jail,” she corrected.

  “Right, right. Mario Scarlatti.” He put out a hand, which Rowena shook briefly across the bar. “Joe’s cousin. Go out the door and holler for him. He probably followed you down here.”

  Rowena felt a surge of heat. “But I told him—he’s not supposed to follow me.”

  “Mistake number one. Never tell Joe Scarlatti what to do. His mama gave up when he was two years old.”

  “It wasn’t his choice—”

  “All the more reason not to do what you said.”

  “Did he tell you—are you sure—” She stopped, disgusted with her sputtering, and marched over to the door, kicking it open with one foot.

  Joe Scarlatti was tying the laces of his beat-up running shoe on the top step of the landing. He grinned up at her. “Well, well, if it isn’t our eccentric genius. Care for an afternoon beer, Ms. Willow?”

  “Did you follow me?” she demanded.

  “You’re the one who knows everything. You tell me.”

  “You have no right—”

  “Mario tell you I followed you? Don’t believe everything he says. He’s trying to get me into trouble because he’s sick of me hanging around.” Scarlatti finished tying his shoe and straightened up. “What’re you doing, checking up on me?”

  “No, I...”

  “You what?”

  She felt ridiculous. And angry. Scarlatti must have followed her. What was more, her reaction to him was just as violently sensual as it had been that morning— as it had been since she’d spotted him five days ago and had only imagined him. In person, up close, for real, he was even more overpowering than glimpsed, half-imagined, from her third-floor sunroom.

  “I’ve got to go,” she mumbled, starting past him.

  He grabbed her upper arm, effectively stopping her in her tracks. His grip was strong, but not harsh. A terrible, wanting ache spread through her at the feel of it. Her mouth went dry. She would never respond this way to Eliot Tyhurst, reformed or not, but it was he, not Sergeant Joe Scarlatti, who had invited her to dinner.

  But Joe Scarlatti, she thought, represented a greater threat to her personal security—her sense of control over her life—than Tyhurst ever could. She knew that now. It was why her attraction bothered her. A man like Scarlatti could make her forget her purpose in life, her responsibilities, the unintended lessons her parents’ destructive love for each other had taught her.

  “At least have something to drink first,” Scarlatti said.

  Rowena found herself nodding. Acquiescing. She didn’t know why, except that she was thirsty, and it was a long way back up to Telegraph Hill—and she somehow felt she should be here. She had learned to trust her intuition. No one, least of all her, could explain the unique blend of intuition, memory and raw intelligence that permitted her to know things the way she did. Even if she didn’t yet completely understand why, she’d had to come here.

  Mario had a beer waiting on the bar for Scarlatti. Rowena could see the questions in the older man’s eyes, but he said nothing to his cousin. She asked for mineral water with a twist of lime.

  “Will you take seltzer?” Mario asked. “Same thing, my opinion, just not as fancy a name.”

  It wasn’t the same, but Rowena didn’t argue. “That’s fine.”

  The younger, more fit Scarlatti slid onto the bar stool. Rowena noticed that his leg muscles were as thick and solid as she’d imagined yesterday when he’d climbed out of his truck. She didn’t sit down. The sergeant frowned at her and told her to sit.

  “Thank you, I’ll stand.”

  “If I told you to stand, would you sit?”

  “I’m not being obstinate.”

  “Then you’re being self-conscious. Sit down, for Pete’s sake. You’re making me nervous.”

  She very much doubted that, but she eased halfway onto the bar stool, somewhere between sitting and standing. Mario brought out her seltzer with lime, and a fake-wood bowl of pretzels and mixed nuts.

  “Finished computing for the day?” Joe asked.

  “I never really got started. There were too many interruptions.”

  “What, one little visit from a cop blows your whole day?”

  “Coupled with an unsettling phone call, yes.”

  Scarlatti was silent. His eyes, however, were dark and alert, ready to seize upon anything she dared give away.

  “I’m having dinner with Eliot Tyhurst tonight,” Rowena said quietly.

  “The hell you are.”

  “It’s his way of making peace with what he did. He says he’s reformed. He needs to have me accept his new self. I was a party to his downfall. I might not owe him a second chance, but I owe society—”

  “What kind of garbage is that? Tyhurst can get his second chance without having dinner with you.”

  She thrust her jaw out stubbornly. Scarlatti’s domineering attitude was just the push she needed to convince herself to go ahead with the dinner. “I can’t not have dinner with him.”

  “Yeah, you can.” He was not succeeding in dissuading her. He drank some of his beer and told her arrogantly, “You call him up, you tell him you’ve made other

  plans and you make sure you’re not home tonight in case he doesn’t listen.” Scarlatti set his beer firmly on the worn, smooth bar. “Better yet, I’ll call him.”

  She sipped her seltzer, which was refreshing if not good. It gave her something to do besides stare at this intriguing, infuria
ting man and acknowledge how easily he could get to her. “I don’t have his number.”

  “You found millions of dollars he’d stashed away. You can find his number.”

  Rowena stiffened. “You’re not my keeper, Sergeant Scarlatti.”

  “And you’re a romantic, Rowena Willow, if you believe Tyhurst has changed. You live up in your castle tower and don’t know squat about the real world.”

  “I’d rather be a bit of a romantic than a cynic. Someone who has paid his debt to society deserves a chance to prove he’s rehabilitated. Society cannot function if that person isn’t given that chance.”

  Scarlatti didn’t even look at her. “You breathe real air up in that ivory tower of yours?”

  Rowena was insulted. She refused to say a word until he looked at her. When he did, she almost wanted to look away, so powerful was his pull on her. But she forced herself to fasten her gaze on him. She set her jaw.

  He didn’t flinch.

  “I will make my own decisions,” she told him.

  As she started up, she placed her hand lightly on the lip of the bar for support. Scarlatti covered it with his, holding her steady. “Why tell me about Tyhurst if you’re not going to listen to my advice?”

  “Was that advice? It sounded more like an order to me. I came, Sergeant,” she said icily, “as a simple courtesy to you and Sergeant Ryan. You anticipated Eliot Tyhurst would contact me, and he has. I believed it my duty to inform you, just as I believe it my duty to have dinner with Mr. Tyhurst this evening.”

  Scarlatti still hadn’t released her. His hand was warm and strong, and she could feel the calluses. In a sudden, totally out-of-place thought, she wondered what his hands would feel like on her breasts, the curve of her hip.

  She must be going out of her mind. Perhaps she needed a vacation. Or more work. Lots more work, to keep her mind productively occupied.

  “You could have called the department and left a message for me,” he said, watching her closely. His eyes narrowed. “Something wrong?”

  “No!”

  She dismissed the vivid, paralyzing thought of him making love to her. She was in shock. How could her mind be so treacherous? It wasn’t that she was sexually repressed or considered attraction to a man unhealthy, just that she considered her attraction to this man out of proportion and potentially dangerous. He was a detective on leave from the San Francisco police department. She was a financial whiz. They had nothing in common. It wasn’t sensible to respond so heatedly to a man so clearly not right for her, and she had vowed to herself that she would be sensible not only in matters of finance, but of the heart.

  With tremendous self-discipline—which she hoped he couldn’t detect—she tossed her head back haughtily. “Why should I waste the police’s time with something unofficial—” she eyed him significantly “—and so trivial?”

  “Cute, Ms. Willow.” He let her go, and she could breathe again. “Real cute.”

  This time when she left, he didn’t stop her.

  Until she reached the door.

  “What time is Tyhurst picking you up?”

  “Seven. Do not interfere, Sergeant.”

  His grin was intentionally sexy, challenging. “Sweetheart, you won’t even know I’m there.”

  * * *

  Rowena sensed Joe Scarlatti’s presence the rest of the afternoon and into the evening.

  She sensed it when she was putting on a slim chocolate brown skirt and cream-colored silk blouse. She sensed it when she slipped on her stockings and combed her hair and repinned it and clipped on sapphire earrings. She sensed it when she paced in the entry before seven o’clock, hearing only the sounds of her footsteps echoing in the cavernous house.

  She’d checked the street periodically, but there was no sign of Scarlatti.

  Yet he was out there, somewhere. She knew it.

  Could feel it.

  Aunt Adelaide’s suit of armor stood silent, almost like an old friend. Rowena hadn’t yet bothered redecorating the first two floors of the house since her aunt’s death. She wasn’t sure why: she could certainly afford it. She loathed the taxidermy room. She planned eventually to donate its displays to a museum, although the room came in handy to discourage certain kinds of visitors. After all, she could have taken Joe Scarlatti out to the courtyard to talk.

  The doorbell rang. She answered it at once.

  Scarlatti strode into the entry. He had on a black pullover and black canvas pants, worn and loose. Burnt-out or not, he looked very tough and competent. And annoyed. “How come you answer on the first ring when you think it’s Eliot Tyhurst and it took me six rings to rouse you this morning?”

  “I was working and you were uninvited,” Rowena replied coolly, “just as you are now. What are you doing here?”

  “Just seeing if you were going through with dinner with this ex-con who bilked the American people out of millions.”

  “He served his time.”

  “He’d have gotten more time if he’d held up a gas station.”

  “I have no control over the criminal justice system.”

  “Yeah, well.” He left it at that and gave her a long, deliberately obvious head-to-toe once-over that finished at her face. “My, my. Makeup, even. Tyhurst gets the full treatment and I get sensible shoes and a floppy hat.”

  “It’s after dark now, and I burn easily, and we won’t be walking. Not that I have to justify myself to you.”

  “How old are you?”

  His non sequitur caught her off guard. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “You’re young for an eccentric genius, aren’t you?”

  “Eliot Tyhurst will be arriving any minute. I would prefer not to have to introduce you as my bodyguard.”

  “I’m not a bodyguard, sweetheart.” He moved toward her, across the invisible line that marked the boundary to her space, invading it with his primitive heat. “You couldn’t afford to pay me what I’d charge to protect you, even if you sold off every stuffed bird and horror-house trinket in this place and raided every mutual fund you own. I’m a cop. I’m not in this for you.”

  She believed him. Joe Scarlatti, she thought, was a hard and complex man, and she dared not underestimate him. The only way to deal with him was on a basic, elemental level.

  She raised her chin slightly and peered into his eyes, which were hot and dark and challenging. She kept hers cool and objective. “I stand corrected. Nevertheless, you’re not here in an official capacity and I have a right to ask you to leave. Please do so.”

  He didn’t back off a millimeter. “Call off your dinner, Rowena.”

  “Is that an order?”

  “A suggestion.”

  “Are you going to follow me?”

  He shook his head. “Can’t risk it. You’re on your own tonight.”

  “Fine. I’m choosing the restaurant. He doesn’t know that yet, but I am. We’ll be at the Meridien. I didn’t want anything too small and intimate.”

  “More chance someone will recognize him.”

  “Precisely why I chose such a public spot. If his motives are suspect, he’ll have a hard time acting on them with witnesses who not only can provide a description of him, but his name, too.”

  “What about transportation?”

  “I’m driving.”

  Scarlatti couldn’t hide his surprise. “You have a car?”

  “I intend to drive his,” she said. “Look, he’s going to be here. Duck into the drawing room until I’m gone, then let yourself out.”

  He gave her a nasty, sexy smile. “Is that an order?”

  She smiled back, just as nastily, maybe not so sexily, and refused to act on the urge to step away from him. “Give it up, Sergeant. You care about Tyhurst seeing you more than I do. You know why? You’re not interested in protecting me from him. Neither is Sergeant Ryan. You’re after Tyhurst for reasons that have nothing to do with me personally.”

  Something—she didn’t know what—made his eyes flash. “Tell me
, do you ever doubt one of your own opinions or are you always so obnoxiously sure of yourself?”

  “My only question,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken, “is why an ordinary cop like you would want Tyhurst so much.”

  “Lady, I’m a lot of things, but ordinary isn’t one of them.”

  She ignored the implication of his words. Or pretended to. She was intensely aware of every millimeter of him. “I’ll find out,” she promised.

  The doorbell rang, and Scarlatti quietly—if not obediently—slipped into the drawing room.

  * * *

  Joe felt hundreds of beady glass eyes on him in the dark, overly populated drawing room. Rowena Willow was much more of a handful than he had anticipated. He had almost lost her this afternoon when she took off to Mario’s. He should have checked right in the beginning for a back exit from her mausoleum. And he should have guessed someone so independent, so alone, would jump all over a dinner invitation from an ex-con she’d helped nail. She was giving him a second chance. She owed society. Hell. The lady was bored out of her mind.

  And out to show him.

  That had been a mistake, he thought. He shouldn’t have got her goat the way he had. She certainly wasn’t acquiescent.

  And she suspected his motives for watching her weren’t entirely unselfish.

  Joe had taken the case because of Tyhurst and not because of any real concern for Rowena Willow. But Rowena didn’t have to know that. It was none of her business that his grandparents weren’t financial geniuses, that Tyhurst had been able to rob them blind.

  For a reclusive workaholic, she had a way of stirring things up.

  Admit it, Scarlatti. You haven’t felt this alive in months.

  He wasn’t admitting anything.

  He pressed his ear to the thick double doors and listened.

  “Rowena—my heavens, you look lovely.”

  Joe felt bile rise in his throat at the sound of the bastard’s smooth voice. But he had to agree with Tyhurst on that one point—Rowena did look attractive. He hoped, however, the crooked banker was responding to her in a more objective, clinical, calculated manner than Joe himself did. Rowena Willow made him think about sex. It was that simple and probably would surprise the hell out of her if she knew. And maybe scare her into being less confrontational. Maybe if he were on official business his professionalism would have kicked into gear.