NIGHT WATCH

by Carla Neggers

  But she didn’t touch him. She started to, but he said, “Let me love you first...”

  He started with her throat, touching her only with his lips and tongue. She felt the rest of her aching for their heat. He moved lower. He tasted the soft flesh of her breast, the pebble-hardness of her nipples. She balled her hands into fists at her sides so that she wouldn’t grab hold of him. He moved lower, down the flat muscles of her abdomen, over her hips, licking and tasting, leaving in his wake a trail of fire.

  At last he came to the smoothness of her inner thighs.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Rowena murmured, quaking. “I want you so much.”

  “You’ve done your thinking. Don’t think anymore. Just do what your body wants you to do.” His voice was ragged with his own longing. “Show me what you want.”

  She wanted his lips and tongue to do to the hot center of her what they’d done to her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. She wanted that blazing heat there. Then it was. She hadn’t even realized she’d opened her legs. Her hands flew out to her sides and clenched two small pillows as the heat mounted. It didn’t stop. She’d expected it to stop. How could it not stop? But every time she thought she had the heat under control, he would reclaim it.

  She stopped thinking. There was no controlling this heat, this man. She gave herself up to it, and it remained, consuming her, even when he drew back long enough to discard his jeans. He came back to her all hard and naked and thoroughly, thoroughly male, and there was no hesitation on her part. He joined their bodies with a single, sweeping thrust that made her cry out with a sweet blending of pain and joy and physical pleasure that she’d never known. He cried out her name, and the heat overtook them both.

  When they fell apart, exhausted and spent, Rowena felt not even the faintest hint of embarrassment. She ran one hand up the hard length of his hip. “One day I want to do to you what you just did to me.”

  His smile reached the dark depths of his eyes. “Do you have that kind of self-control?”

  She remembered how he had never touched her with anything but his lips and tongue. “You’ll just have to wait and find out.”

  But he didn’t have to wait long. Before sunup he found out just how much self-control she had... and, in a different way, how much he had.

  Later they opened the drapes and showered and changed.

  It was a new day.

  * * *

  Hank Ryan studied Joe from the other side of his booth at Mario’s Bar & Grill. “What’s eating you?”

  “Nothing’s eating me.” But Joe could hear the impatience in his own voice.

  “Something is,” Hank said, unruffled by his friend’s foul mood. “Is having something to do getting to you or is it Rowena Willow?”

  “It’s your imagination.”

  Joe wondered at his own gruffness. What was wrong with him? He had started his day making love to a beautiful woman. An enigmatic woman. A woman he suddenly couldn’t imagine not having in his life.

  Still, it was one thing to make love to Rowena Willow. It was quite another to fall in love with her. And he was afraid that was just what was happening.

  He drank some of the beer Mario had reluctantly brought him. Was that what was happening—had he fallen for Rowena? Even the question made him shift in his seat. Falling for Rowena Willow could be dangerous. Not for him. He didn’t give a damn about himself. For Rowena. How the hell could she imagine what his life was really like? How could he dare feel so alive with her in his arms?

  “Scarlatti?”

  He sighed. “I’m still the same man I was before I got mixed up with Rowena Willow.”

  But it wasn’t true, and he knew it.

  So did Hank. “You two have something going,” his friend said. It wasn’t a question.

  Joe just scowled at him. Mario had said much the same thing when Joe had stumbled in two hours earlier. Must have something printed on his forehead.

  “You’re crazy, you know that?” Hank was shaking his head in despair. “You two have nothing in common. Nothing.”

  “We’re survivors, Hank, each in our own way. I didn’t see that at first. I just saw her as a weirdo who memorized license plate numbers. But I see it now.”

  “You’re a cop, Joe. You’re on a job—”

  ‘Unofficially.”

  “What you’re doing is unethical.”

  “What am I doing, Hank?”

  Hank pointed a finger at him. “You’re sleeping with her.”

  Only once, Joe thought. Only once. Well, twice if he counted how many times they’d made love. But it was only one... well, event, he thought. Just that predawn collapse of his common sense.

  And arousal of all his other senses.

  “Hell,” he said under his breath.

  “Don’t lose your edge, Scarlatti.” Hank had leaned forward over the table, his expression turning professional. “Just because Tyhurst hasn’t made his move yet doesn’t mean he won’t. I’ve got news. It’s not good.”

  Joe’s cop-instincts immediately clicked into gear. “Your snitch?”

  Hank nodded, without pleasure or satisfaction. “He checks out. He had access to Tyhurst in prison. Says our boy Eliot is a cold-blooded bastard who’s out for just one thing—to see Rowena Willow suffer. He’s out for revenge. Period.”

  Joe felt a stab of cold in the small of his back. He clenched his beer bottle in one hand but took no drink. “You believe this snitch?”

  “I don’t know. He wants to ingratiate himself, see what’s in it for him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s telling us what he thinks we want to hear.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “He says Tyhurst kept track of Rowena’s goings-on while he was in prison. He didn’t actually tell anyone he was planning revenge, but our fellow says it was obvious he wanted to make someone pay for his downfall and that someone is Rowena Willow.”

  “You have enough, Hank. Put someone on her.”

  He shook his head. “No evidence. Tyhurst hasn’t made any threats. No one else says he’s out for revenge. Our tattletale doesn’t have a good track record.”

  “Then Tyhurst could be what he says he is—a man who wants a fresh start.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  Hank didn’t respond right away. “No,” he said finally, “I don’t think so.”

  “I don’t, either.”

  “Stay sharp.” Hank climbed heavily to his feet. “I trust you, Scarlatti. Just be sure you trust yourself before you put Rowena Willow’s life in your hands.”

  * * *

  Eliot Tyhurst came to Rowena’s house while Joe was out for the afternoon, having left a perfunctory note on her refrigerator. She immediately suspected Tyhurst’s presence, and Joe’s absence wasn’t a coincidence, something the former banker confirmed. “I saw your boyfriend leave,” he told her tightly on her front stoop. “My what?”

  He gave a small shake of the head, as if indulging a recalcitrant toddler. “I know who he is and what he is, Rowena.”

  “And obviously you’ve jumped to some unkind conclusion,” she said coolly.

  “He’s a San Francisco cop, a detective sergeant. He’s on leave of absence from the department over the death of his partner. He’s a real head case. He has a short fuse, he thinks everyone in the world is a criminal. He’s a cynic.”

  She had to remember that Eliot Tyhurst was not a man to underestimate. “Look, Eliot—”

  “He’ll do anything to get what he wants. He risked the life of his partner and best friend to arrest some two-bit drug dealers.” Tyhurst breathed out slowly, his tension visibly easing. He opened his hands from the fists he had them clenched into. His tone softened. “And he’s done his damnedest to get an isolated, brilliant and beautiful woman to fall for him. Another feather in his cap, I suppose. A notch on his gun, whatever. I can’t say I know how such a man really thinks.”

  Rowena suppressed an urge to slam the door in h
is face and run upstairs to her office, bury herself in her work. She said stiffly, “Unkind conclusions indeed. And fairly extraordinary ones, Eliot.”

  “Extraordinary perhaps, but I don’t think unkind, and I don’t think incorrect.” His eyes narrowed, but he looked more frightened than intimidating. Rowena noticed that he had cut himself shaving, that his tie was poorly knotted. “The truth is, Joe Scarlatti is after me. He wants me back in prison and he’ll do anything to get me there.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I’m not stupid, Rowena.” He sounded almost sad.

  “No, you’re not. But the truth is something a bit different from what you apparently think.” She debated inviting him inside, then quickly decided against it. His state of mind was just too volatile. “I haven’t told you this sooner because I don’t believe it’s been my place to do so. However, since you’ve seen Sergeant Scarlatti and have your own ideas about why he was here, I see no reason not to tell you. A friend of his on the force— Sergeant Hank Ryan, remember him?”

  Eliot Tyhurst nodded without interrupting.

  “He put Scarlatti up to watching here unofficially in case you decided to come after me for purposes of revenge. Ryan wanted him to get back to work. He was afraid Sergeant Scarlatti was sliding into some kind of funk, that he wouldn’t return to the force when his leave of absence ended.” She swallowed. It was strange referring to a man she had made love to just hours ago in so clinical a fashion. “I’m afraid I don’t know all the details.”

  “No,” Tyhurst said coldly, unmoved by her explanation, “you clearly don’t.”

  She blinked at him, waiting for him to continue, trying not to acknowledge her growing uneasiness that he just might be right.

  “Rowena, Joe Scarlatti has a personal vendetta against me.”

  He sounded confident. Certain of the veracity of his statement. Rowena shivered not with cold—it was a warm, sunny November afternoon—but with the uncomfortable thought that Eliot Tyhurst might know something about Joe Scarlatti that she didn’t know.

  There was a lot about Joe Scarlatti, she thought, that she didn’t know.

  “But why would he?” she asked. “He doesn’t know you.”

  Tyhurst smirked. “I see he hasn’t told you.”

  Rowena began to shake. “Told me what?”

  “Come to my hotel tonight. Without him. Have dinner with me.” He stepped forward, his eyes pleading, filled with anguish. “I’ll tell you more about why I need you, Rowena.”

  There was an obvious double meaning to his words. She bit down on her lower lip and cleared her throat, no longer certain of what she should be thinking or even feeling. She said, “I can’t...”

  “Please. Just have dinner. I’ll tell you everything. Then you can decide what you want to do.”

  “I—I don’t want you to pick me up. I’ll meet you.”

  “All right. My hotel’s restaurant is very good.” He smiled sadly. “And it’s generally crowded. You don’t have to worry about that.”

  “Don’t assume I don’t believe you’ve reformed. It’s not my place to judge you.”

  “But you’ve been hanging around with Joe Scarlatti. Falling for him, I daresay. His cynicism has washed off onto you. He’s convinced you I can’t change.”

  She stiffened at his accusation. “I said I’m willing to give you a chance.”

  Some of the tension seemed to go out of his body. “Seven o’clock, then?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  * * *

  Joe caught up with Eliot Tyhurst in the bar of the downtown hotel where he was staying, a tidbit provided by Hank Ryan. It was time, Joe had decided, for him and the ex-con to have a few words.

  “Your average bank robber fresh out of prison couldn’t afford a place like this,” he said, taking in the elegant lobby with an exaggerated sweeping glance.

  Tyhurst gave him a supercilious look. “I’m not an average bank robber, Sergeant.”

  “So you know who I am. Figured as much. No, you’re well above average. You stole millions instead of a few grand. But you got caught.”

  “And I served my time. This is harassment.”

  “Nope. This is fair warning. I’m rattling your cage, Eliot. You’re out for revenge. Rowena Willow ruined you and you’re going to make her pay. I don’t know how and I don’t know when you plan to make your move, but I promise you, I’ll be there.”

  Tyhurst shook his head. Joe had to admire the guy’s control. “I’ve done nothing.”

  “Go on your way, Tyhurst. Leave Rowena alone. Get out of her life and stay out.”

  “For your sake?”

  “For yours. I’m watching you.”

  “And I’m watching you.” Tyhurst spoke through his teeth, the only indication he gave that Joe had gotten to him at all. Otherwise he looked like an honest banker out for a drink after a long day. “One wrong step, Sergeant Scarlatti, and I’ll see you removed from the force.”

  Joe shrugged. “That doesn’t worry me, you know.”

  “I suppose it wouldn’t.” His nostrils flared as if he smelled something bad. “Your only worry these days is Rowena Willow. Well, she has nothing to fear from me. I suggest that she has far more to fear from you, Sergeant Scarlatti.”

  It was a fair point, Joe thought. The bastard just might be right. But he didn’t budge. “Watch yourself, Tyhurst.”

  Tyhurst responded with a downright disdainful smile. “I intend to. Good evening to you, Sergeant.”

  * * *

  When Rowena ripped open her front door for him, Joe immediately noticed two things. One, her hair was down. Tangled and shining and unbelievably gorgeous.

  Two, she was rip-snorting mad. At least by her standards. She wasn’t the type to kick and scream and throw things, but when she saw him, she whirled around in the entry, hair flying, and marched back and forth in front of her auntie’s medieval suit of armor.

  “Going to borrow our pal’s spear here and run me through?”

  She cut her eyes, gleaming and mad, around at him. “It’s a thought.”

  “I had that feeling. What’s up? Am I late?”

  “Late? Late for what?” She seemed to have no idea that he’d said the first thing that had popped into his head just to get her to open up. It wasn’t a question meant to be dissected. “You left a note saying that you were going out and would be back later. How could you possibly be late if you gave no specific time of return?”

  “Not the possessive type, I see.”

  She scowled at him. “Don’t try to soften me with your sarcastic wit, Sergeant Scarlatti. I’m very annoyed with you.”

  Very annoyed? A comment worthy of inciting his sarcastic wit, but Joe resisted. The woman was angry and didn’t deserve to have him patronize her. “Rowena,” he said seriously, “do you want to talk?”

  She nodded stiffly, unmollified, and gestured toward the drawing room, a sure sign that she was in a truly foul mood. Joe went in and stood next to the curio cabinet of dead birds. Rowena’s footsteps clicked on the shiny hardwood floor, then grew muffled as she marched across the thick Persian carpet. She was dressed casually in leggings and an oversize top, but her natural elegance shone through. Joe remembered his fingers in her hair, remembered it splayed across his chest.

  “Okay,” he said. He could see that she wanted herself to do the talking and him the listening. At least for starters. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  She had her back to him as she gazed either out the window or at the buffalo’s head, Joe couldn’t tell which. Maybe she was thinking about what his head would look like mounted on her wall.

  What had he done?

  You made love to her, my friend. You took her virginity.

  Then she said, “Your grandparents, Mario and Sofia Scarlatti, lost their life savings as a result of Eliot Tyhurst’s financial machinations.”

  Hell, he thought. So she’d found out on her own. He’d always known she could do it. She’d unraveled Elio
t Tyhurst’s little scheme, hadn’t she? But he hadn’t thought she would find out about his grandparents, at least not before he got around to swallowing his pride and telling her his own connection to their pal the ex-con.

  “I guess it won’t do any good to say I was planning to tell you,” he said.

  She didn’t turn around. “You should have told me the day you met me.”

  “Maybe. My grandfather was a proud man, and he made a mistake. I didn’t want you thinking less of him for it.”

  Her eyes didn’t soften. “You should never even have taken on this case. Sergeant Ryan never should have asked you.”

  “Why?”

  She whirled around at him. “Because you’re biased! You have an agenda. You want revenge.”

  “Rowena—”

  “I thought you were objective. I thought you were a professional. I believed your advice was uncolored by personal motives.”

  “Rowena—”

  “I trusted you!”

  “Rowena, what happened to my grandparents and how I feel about Tyhurst has nothing to do with us.” Not that she’d said it had, but he was taking a wild stab it had crossed her mind and was one reason she was so mad. “You’re right. I should have told you sooner.”

  “The day we met, Scarlatti. The day we met you should have told me.”

  “Well, I could argue that I wasn’t planning on making love to you the day we met. Not that the thought didn’t cross my mind. The point is, I owed you the full story and I should have given it to you before now. I just didn’t feel it was my place to expose my grandparents’ financial mistakes to someone like you.”

  It wasn’t the right thing to say. “And just what is ‘someone like me’?”

  “You’re hard on people who die broke, Rowena.”

  She drew in a deep breath, stalked past him, said, “You’re a snake,” and kept on going.