“I see.”
Her scone was soft and fresh, lighter than her usual whole wheat, no-sugar fare—a real treat. A Mozart sonata played quietly in the background. People continuously wandered in and out of the small, popular shop. Couples, elderly tourists, students, an old man who sat in the back with a book of poetry and a pot of tea, a young woman with two small children who couldn’t make up their minds over which cookie they wanted. “The one with the sprinkles.. .no, no, the chocolate cookies.. .oh, wait—wait, I want that one!”
Rowena shook off a sudden longing for more normalcy and companionship in her own life.
“What’s wrong?” Joe asked.
“Is it so obvious or are you just that observant? I guess my marathon session at the computer is having an effect.”
She wanted to leave it at that, but Joe urged her on. “What kind of an effect?”
She shrugged. “I’m usually very optimistic about my life. Satisfied. I accepted a long time ago that I’m different, that my life would have its own peculiar limits. I have no parents, no siblings, no cousins. I was raised by an elderly, eccentric aunt. I have a gift for numbers. For understanding and unraveling complex financial systems. I am who I am. I can’t suddenly stop being who I am because sometimes it gets in the way of living like other people live. Aunt Adelaide taught me not to worry about things like that but to accept who I am.”
“She sounds all right after all, your Aunt Adelaide.”
Rowena smiled and nodded, suddenly missing the old woman who’d tried so hard. “She meant well. I might have had an easier time if she’d been more sociable, but then again I might not be as comfortable with myself. None of us can change the past.”
“No,” Joe said heavily.
“You can’t pretend you don’t know, haven’t seen, the things you know and have seen on the streets.”
“Yeah, I guess. How’s your scone?”
He wasn’t going to talk more. She didn’t push him, but smiled instead; if she wanted him to accept her, she had to accept him. “It’s very good. Yours?”
“Fine. I could do without the currants, though. Coffee’s great.” He narrowed his eyes a moment, studying her. “Takes a while for you to come down after a long day, doesn’t it?”
She nodded. “That’s why I usually have tea in the tower.”
“Sounds ominous—'the tower.’ But I know what you mean. After a long day on the streets—yeah, it takes some time to unwind. Are you still processing what you learned about Tyhurst on your computer? Coming up with new ideas?”
Tyhurst. Of course. Eliot Tyhurst, she must remember, was the reason Joe Scarlatti was in her life. She shook her head, sipping her now-lukewarm tea. She added more hot tea from the pot. “Nothing new. Why do you care so much about Tyhurst?”
He frowned as if he didn’t like her question, but he said amiably, “I have my reasons. Hank Ryan got me involved unofficially. He was at Tyhurst’s trial, doesn’t believe he’s reformed. I guess the man’s done his time and is due a chance to go straight, but if he’s up to something, tries to exact a little revenge on you, I’ll be there.”
But Rowena sensed he wasn’t telling her the complete truth and wondered why. “It’s not your usual sort of case.”
“Nope. I don’t usually take on white-collar crime. But then it’s not usual for me to be on leave, either.”
She drank her tea and ate her scone, wondering if the Joe Scarlatti she had met and was so attracted to, however much against her better judgment, was anything like the Joe Scarlatti his colleagues in the police department knew.
When it came time to pay, their tea and coffee and scones consumed, Rowena realized she hadn’t brought a nickel with her and felt like a fool. “And you know so much about money,” Joe teased, tossing a handful of bills onto the table. “Tut-tut.”
Outside, the fog had receded even more, and instead of turning back up toward Telegraph Hill, they continued along the narrow streets toward the waterfront. They had no purpose, no direction. They were just walking. Rowena couldn’t remember feeling so free.
“You like just walking the streets?” Joe asked.
“Yes, it’s wonderful. But I have to admit it’s not something I do on a regular basis.”
He glanced sideways at her.
She laughed. “You’re wondering if I’m just fooling you and if I ever get out at all.”
“Well...”
“I do, Joe. Trust me. Not often, and when I do, I like to know where I’m going, when I’ll be back—I suppose it’s a control thing.”
“But you do have friends,” he said dubiously.
“Of course I have friends. Some I’ve never met—we communicate over the computer—but I have a few here in the city. Not tons and tons—I’m not that type. But I’ve been extra-busy lately—I owe people visits and phone calls.”
“How lately is lately?”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you been extra-busy for a month, six months, a year?”
“I’m always busy. But the past six months have been particularly rough. I bit off more than I could reasonably chew, you could say, which means I haven’t been out very much at all.”
“And Tyhurst and I are distractions?”
She smiled over at him. “Big distractions.”
“Do I hear a ‘but7 in your tone?” he asked not so much hopefully as confidently.
“Well, I don’t know about Tyhurst, but you’re—I suppose you’re proving not as bad a distraction as I’d first envisioned.”
“‘Not as bad’ a distraction doesn’t mean I’m a welcome one.” Again that bantering tone, as if he knew just what kind of distraction he was. And liked it.
“Let’s just say you’re a unique distraction and leave it at that.”
“If that’s what you want.”
“I’m enjoying myself right now, Joe. I feel a little as if I’ve been in a cave for the past six months and now I’ve ventured into the sunlight—like a bear coming out of hibernation, I guess.”
He laughed. “Bad analogy. If there’s one thing you don’t look like, it’s a bear.”
She laughed, too, feeling relaxed, unworried, more open and ready to take on the world. The Joe Scarlatti effect. And why not let her guard down for a little while? What harm could come to her?
They continued along in silence. Rowena didn’t feel as if Joe was leading and she was following, but more that they weren’t really headed anywhere specific, just enjoying the coming of evening in their beautiful city. She couldn’t remember having gone so long without any purpose in mind.
Somehow they ended up within a couple of blocks of Mario’s Bar & Grill.
“We can walk on back to Telegraph Hill,” Joe said, “or we can have dinner at Mario’s.”
“Does he... what kind of food does he serve?”
They had stopped on a breezy corner. Joe looked cold and tired...and so sexy, so physical and alive and real, it took Rowena’s breath away.
A corner of his mouth twitched. “Not clotted cream, for sure. No tofu, either, unless you have a hangover. And no brown rice.”
“Italian?”
“Sure.”
She smiled and in a fun-filled gesture, hooked her arm into his. “I love Italian.”
“Italian what?”
“Italian food.”
“Oh.”
* * *
Even with Mario’s more eclectic dinner crowd, Rowena stuck out. Her flushed cheeks against otherwise milky white skin. Her thick, shiny golden hair piled up on her head with pins and bronze combs. Her dazzling smile. Her wide blue fascinating—and fascinated—eyes. They set her out if not apart, said in so many ways she was from a different world than was Joe Scarlatti, old Mario’s cop grandson, the reckless one, the one anchored in the real world. She could visit his world; he could visit hers. Joe thought of her cats and lonely house, the hum of her computer, her scones and tea and clotted cream. Could either of them live in the other’s world?
He hadn’t thought about the future in a long, long time. It felt good.
Maybe too good.
Mario had pulled up a chair to their booth in the corner and he and Rowena were having an animated discussion about Italian cuisine. Something about olive oil. Roasted peppers crept into the conversation. Wood-fired ovens. Whole-milk ricotta versus part-skim. Italian wines versus California wines. Rowena was drinking a California red wine from Sonoma Valley.
Joe sipped his beer, satisfied to catch snatches of what the two of them were talking about. To watch Rowena’s mouth on the thin rim of her glass. He wasn’t picky about food himself, but a woman’s mouth—that was something to be a connoisseur of. He noticed the fullness of her lower lip, the way her tongue would sneak out and lick the wine off her mouth after she drank.
She was good with people, he thought. Better than he ever would have expected sitting out on her street those first days, watching her Ivanhoe house. He wondered if she needed to be around people more than she could let herself admit.
Finally Mario heaved himself up. It was still early for dinner and he wasn’t as pressed in the kitchen, where he had help at night anyway. “I’ll fix you up a nice eggplant parmesan—light on the oil, fresh pasta on the side, splash of red wine in the sauce. You’ll love it.” He glanced down at Joe. “You look a sight better than you did this morning. But next time shave before you come to dinner.”
“You sound like Grandma,” Joe said.
“Yeah, go see her when you look like that and she’ll shave you with a butcher knife.” Mario turned back to Rowena, his expression softening. “I’ll fix you a nice salad, too, tossed with just a teaspoon of my special Italian dressing. How’s that sound?”
She was beaming under the attention. “Wonderful.”
After Mario had gone, Joe settled back in his seat and eyed Rowena. “Eggplant parmesan isn’t on the menu.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. Mario’s probably sending a busboy out to the grocery now for an eggplant.”
Her cheeks colored. “Well, I never suggested—”
“You didn’t have to. He likes you. First woman I’ve ever brought around he’s done anything more than grunt at.” In spite of himself, Joe was pleased. “Not that I give a damn what Cousin Mario thinks.”
“He seems like a nice man,” Rowena said judiciously.
Joe laughed. “You should have seen him this morning. He offered to throw me out the window feet first.”
“And what did you do to deserve such a threat?”
“Who says I deserved it?”
“I can’t imagine a charmer like Mario making such a threat unless it was warranted.”
“You’ve known him half an hour.”
She sniffed. “I make quick judgments.”
“Yeah, well, you may have a genius I.Q. but that doesn’t mean you know my cousin better than I do. That snake has been on my case for six months. Runs me out of here every chance he gets.” Joe grunted. “Charmer my hind end.”
Rowena, he saw, was grinning, her blue eyes gleaming in the dim light of the bar. “You take me far too seriously, Joe Scarlatti. And probably your cousin Mario, too. Probably life in general. Despite your wit and sense of humor, you are at root a very serious man.”
He leaned forward, his forearm pressed against the edge of the scarred pine table. “You’re bluffing, Rowena Willow. You haven’t come close to figuring me out. You don’t know what I am at root.”
She sipped her wine and said over the rim of the glass, “Don’t I?”
“Dammit, woman—”
“Oh, so it’s ‘woman’ now?” She set her glass down and tossed her head back; if her hair were down, it would have been a sexy gesture. “I rather like the way you say Rowena.”
He squinted at her, intrigued by this glimpse he was getting of a looser Rowena Willow. “How much wine have you had?”
“Not much. I’m—how did you put it? Letting my hair down. Yes, that was it.”
“Then let it down,” he said.
“What?”
“Pull out a few pins and combs, Rowena. Let it down all the way.”
“I always wear my hair up.”
“Even in bed?” he asked in a husky voice.
But she was spared answering by the unexpected arrival of Hank Ryan. He did a double take on Rowena. “Whoa,” he said, “didn’t expect to find you here.”
She graced him with a polite smile. “Hello, Sergeant Ryan. Would you care to join us?”
He slid into the booth next to Joe. “I can only stay a minute. How’re things going?”
Joe couldn’t tell whether the question was directed at him or at Rowena, but she answered, “Very well, thank you. So far Mr. Tyhurst has done nothing to justify your concern. You did twist Sergeant Scarlatti’s arm so that he would keep an eye on me? I don’t believe I’ve ever gotten a straight answer to that question.”
Hank frowned. “It didn’t take much twisting.”
“Why not?”
“Beg pardon?”
“White-collar crime isn’t his area of expertise. We’d never met. He didn’t know me. And he had no personal or professional interest in taking on this case.”
She was sounding like a detective, Joe thought, refusing to squirm.
Hank shifted in his chair, looking as if he wished he’d snuck back out once he’d seen Joe with Rowena. “He needed the work,” Hank said finally. “He knew it, and I knew it.”
“So.” Rowena pushed her lips up, then took another swallow of wine. Joe could see her computer-mind at work. He knew he’d have to get around to telling her about his grandparents. It just wasn’t an easy topic to bring up to a woman who made her living keeping people from making financial mistakes. ‘‘What you’re saying is that I was a convenient excuse to try to renew Joe Scarlatti’s interest in his work. You were worried about him?”
With a sideways glance at Joe that said he felt like a fly on a light bulb, Hank said, “A lot of us were worried about Joe.”
“I see. And presumably you were more interested— and still are—in catching Eliot Tyhurst if he’s up to no good than in actually protecting me from harm. That’s not a question. It requires no answer. What I’m saying,” she went on, “is that I’m a pawn in your game to find out if Tyhurst truly has reformed and to get Joe Scarlatti back in uniform.”
“He doesn’t really wear a uniform, he’s plain-clothes—”
Her gaze shut him up. “That’s splitting hairs, Sergeant Ryan. You know perfectly well what I mean.”
Joe stretched out his legs and cleared his throat. “Mind if Joe Scarlatti says a few words?”
His colleague and—what was Rowena Willow to him? Not a client. Not even a lover. An almost lover? She didn’t look much like she wanted to go to bed with him at the moment. Whatever she was, she and Hank turned their attention to him as if just remembering he was there.
Joe said, ‘‘First of all, Tyhurst is a snake, whether we end up locking him up again or not. Second, I’m riding out the end of a six-month leave of absence and will make my own decision about what to do when the time comes. Third, if I have to protect you, Rowena, from physical harm, I will.”
“I’m under no threat whatsoever of—”
He silenced her by holding up a hand and talking louder than she was. “And if Tyhurst is trying to run something on you—meaning he’s pulling some kind of financial scam on you—I can’t help you. In fact, I should wish the poor bastard good luck because you’re smarter than he is, you can spend more time at a computer than most human beings and you’ll catch him and hang him out to dry. By the time you get through with him, Tyhurst would be glad to see the police.”
Hank looked more relaxed, in his element. “Think that’s what he’s up to, trying to suck Rowena into some kind of financial scam he’s running? Get his revenge and get back into the game at the same time?”
“It’s possible,” Joe said. He could see that Rowena was fuming now that she was being
referred to in the third person.
“But you don’t think so,” Hank said thoughtfully.
Joe shook his head. “I think he’s out for revenge, straight and simple. Physical revenge.”
Hank raised up in his seat. “Anything I can take to the captain, get a twenty-four-hour watch on her?”
“No,” Rowena said sharply, “there isn’t.”
But Hank was looking to Joe for an answer. “She’s right,” he admitted. “Tyhurst hasn’t made any overt threats. I’m just going on gut. I listened in on the two of them meeting this morning. He’s attracted to her, wants to woo her, then...” He lifted his shoulders, trying to deny the tension he was feeling as he imagined what Tyhurst would do. But he couldn’t maintain objectivity, not where Rowena was concerned. “Then he’ll make his move. And he’ll cover his tracks.”
“What meeting?” Hank asked, his concern knitting his eyebrows together.
Joe filled him in, deliberately using police jargon that Rowena, given how much she knew about everything else, probably could translate. But it would remind her that he was a professional. He was a cop, and whatever else had erupted between them, his first and primary obligation to her—his only obligation— was as a cop.
And what the hell, it would tell her that he knew a few things she didn’t know.
When he finished, Hank let out a long breath. “You know, the bastard could be on the up-and-up.”
“Could be,” Joe agreed. “But he’s sounding just too clean to me. He was a model prisoner, and now he’s going to be a model ex-con? I don’t buy it. The SOB stole millions of dollars and lost it because of a plucky financial whiz—a fluke.”
Rowena’s fingers were stiff on her wineglass. “I hate that word, ‘plucky.’ It’s so condescending. Do you ever hear a man being called plucky?”
Hank didn’t seem to have heard her. “He’s got to have a lot of pent-up anger toward her. I saw it seething when he was on trial. I don’t buy it that he’s romancing her. Just doesn’t work for me.”
Wanting to go to bed with her, Joe thought, and romancing her were two different things.
He winced. Was he just as bad as Eliot Tyhurst after all?
NIGHT WATCH Page 11