Saturday, February 21, 7:00 P.M.
She’d surprised him once again, Abe thought as he watched Kristen order their meal in Italian, then go on to converse fluently with their waiter. He’d brought her to Rossellini’s, an Italian place his family had loved since he was a boy. There was a cozy warmth here, and tremendous food. And unlike Mia, Kristen seemed to have an open mind for new culinary experiences.
Watching her smile as Italian flowed from her lips, he couldn’t help but wonder if she had an open mind for other experiences as well. All day as she’d sat next to him in the SUV he’d breathed in her fragrance, watched the play of emotions across her face, some subtle and others not so. He’d watched her tense every time her cell phone rang, knowing she endured harassment from the frightened defense attorneys who’d had the misfortune to share her courtroom. He’d watched her look over her shoulder all day, wondering if she was the subject of scrutiny of cameras or gang members or her humble servant.
And all through the day, Abe replayed the events of the night before in his mind. The heated interest in her normally wary green eyes. The simple compassion when she’d urged him to talk about Debra. And he’d wondered what it would be like.
With her.
He wondered what it would be like to see her solemn face smile every day, to hear her laugh, unfettered by worry. Then he wondered if he was being foolish, latching on to the first wholesome woman he’d come across since coming out from undercover. Kristen was a woman of integrity, intelligence. Beauty and grace. He’d met very few women with those qualities in the last five years. They didn’t tend to hang around drug and weapons dealers.
He kept remembering the day he first saw her. He hadn’t lied the night before. He had been stunned. Then captivated. Then aroused. Incredibly, unmistakably aroused. He’d stayed in the character of his cover that day, spouting innuendo and earning a few slaps on the back from his underworld accomplices. But the mental images hadn’t faded, had stayed fixed in his mind as he’d completed the arrest that had been staged to give his cover credibility. He was one of them then, arrested, with a record. He’d been released on bail shortly thereafter and had returned to the dark, dirty part of the city his cover called home.
But as soon as he’d been able, he slipped away to see Debra in the hospice center, sitting by her bed, massaging her hands and feet, quietly speaking her name while mentally tormenting himself with guilty self-recriminations. He’d lusted after another woman while his wife lay in a silent hell.
Now, his wife was at peace, finally. And he still lusted after Kristen Mayhew.
It was with obvious regret that the waiter broke off their conversation to get back to his other customers. Kristen turned to him, then her green eyes widened and he realized what he was thinking must be written all over his face. For a moment he considered casually laughing it off. But her eyes slowly heated and a rosy blush darkened her cheeks. The tip of her tongue appeared, wetting her lips and Abe almost groaned aloud.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was rude of me to ignore you. It’s just been a long time since I’ve had a chance to use my Italian.”
“Don’t apologize. I enjoyed listening to you. I didn’t know you spoke Italian.”
She lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “I spent a year in Italy when I was in college. I picked up a lot of conversational Italian, but I’m sure my grammar is atrocious. I know I’m rusty as hell.” She picked up her menu, fidgeting with the corner. “You didn’t have to take me to dinner, you know. Spinnelli has a cruiser stationed outside my house. I think I’ll be all right on my own.”
Something inside him stirred, hot and restless. “Did it occur to you that I might want to be with you? That my bringing you here has nothing to do with this case?”
She looked up and met his eyes. “Yes.” Her voice had dropped, gone husky, sending tingles of sensation racing across his skin. “Yes, it did.”
He swallowed hard. A thousand responses ran through his mind, all of them completely inappropriate and guaranteed to make her pull away.
“Ah, signorina.”
Abe bit back a curse at the interruption as Kristen’s face lifted to a beaming Tony Rossellini, the heart and soul of the restaurant and one of his parents’ oldest friends. He made himself smile. “Tony, it’s so good to see you.”
Tony’s eyes widened in surprise, and with amusement Abe realized the old man hadn’t come by to see him. “Abe. Abe Reagan. My nephew did not tell me it was you with this beautiful signorina tonight. It is good to see you. Your parents were in just last week and never mentioned you were back in town.”
It was the family’s story, one they’d told to all their friends and even their own small children. Abe had moved to Los Angeles and came back only periodically for visits. As far as he knew, even Rachel believed it. It would have been too dangerous for one of the kids to inadvertently mention his true movements. He shot Kristen a look and saw she understood the subterfuge and would not expose it.
“Yes, sir. I’m back now, assigned to the Homicide Division. This is Kristen Mayhew.”
Tony’s wizened old face scrunched in concentration as he struggled to place the name, then his brows shot up his forehead when he did. “Ah. Well, we’ll not speak of such things tonight. Tonight is not for work, but for play.” He produced a bottle of red wine from behind his back. An excellent label, Abe could see at a glance. “My nephew told me only of a pretty lady who had spent a year in the beautiful city of my father and grandfather.” With the skill of the well practiced, he whipped the cork from the bottle. “It has been some time since I have been to Firenze, but it is always in my heart.” He set about filling their glasses with pride, and it was then Abe remembered Kristen didn’t drink.
He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped, his entire body stiffening when he felt her hand slide across his. He looked at her and she shook her head, a minute movement meant only for him. Then her hand was gone and she lifted her glass to Tony in a toast. She spoke in Italian, and whatever she said made Tony beam even brighter. He responded in kind before turning to Abe with a great smile.
“Now that you are home you will come often, yes, Abe? And when you come, you will bring the signorina.”
“I will.” Whether Abe meant the first or both, he couldn’t say. “Tony, we’ve been followed all day by reporters. If anyone comes in that looks suspicious, could you…?”
Tony frowned. “Say no more, Abe. They will not bother you here.” He went back to the kitchen, not waiting for a response.
Kristen carefully set the wineglass on the table and looked away. “A nice man.”
“Mmm, yes. Tony is an old friend of my parents.”
He tilted his head, willing her to look at him, but she didn’t. His fingers itched to touch her, to slide across the table and cover her hand as she had his. But he didn’t, instead lifting his own wineglass to his lips. “I thought you said you didn’t drink.”
“I don’t, but I didn’t want to insult him by denying his hospitality. I’ll have a sip or two over the evening, and you’ll be the only one to know.”
And there it was again, her simple regard for the feelings of others. He thought of the look in her eyes the night before as she’d torn the sandpaper in two and handed him half. He’d seen compassion and understanding, but also something more. That something more had kept him awake most of the rest of the night.
“Kristen.” He waited, but she kept her eyes steadily focused on a point across the restaurant. “You could have gone home at any point after Spinnelli assigned your shadow. Mia offered to drop you off on her way to meet her date. Why are you here with me?”
It was another long moment before she met his eyes, but when she did he saw both interest and a vulnerability that made his heart stutter even as his blood kindled. “Did it ever occur to you that I’m here because I wanted to be with you, too?” she asked quietly.
“I’d hoped,” he answered honestly and her lips curved, so slightly he w
ould have missed it had he not been staring. He covered her hand with his, feeling her quick flinch. But she didn’t pull away and he took that as a positive sign. “Why Italy?”
She blinked, clearly not anticipating the question. “Excuse me?”
He slipped his thumb beneath her hand, sweeping back and forth against her palm in a gentle caress. She grew rigid, but still didn’t pull away. “Why a year in Italy?”
Her eyes dropped to their joined hands. “I was studying in Florence.”
“Art?”
She looked up, a little smile on her face, and his heart stuttered again. “Does anyone go to Florence to study anything else?”
“I thought you had an eye for color,” he said. “So if you studied art in Florence, how did you end up a lawyer? Why aren’t you painting or sculpting or whatever you studied?”
Her smile dimmed. “Life doesn’t always end up the way you plan. But I suppose you know that, too.”
That he did. “Yeah.”
She visibly shook herself. “I’m being selfish here. You invite me to share a nice dinner and I go all maudlin on you. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Okay, something else.” He tilted his head, scrutinizing her. “You surprised us this afternoon at the target range. You never told us you could shoot.” But she could. He’d watched her standing in front of Diana Givens’s glass counter methodically choosing her weapon, his mind thinking about how pleasurable it would be to show her the fundamentals of handling a firearm. How it would feel to put his arms around her, to feel her slender body against his. His body had responded instantly to the fantasy, leaving him almost relieved when she’d declined his and Mia’s offers of help. Instead, she’d emptied the magazine into the paper target with speed and accuracy, leaving them all momentarily speechless. “You hit the chest cavity every time.”
“I’m no sharpshooter, but I can hold my own with a tin can on a fence rail.”
“So you lived on a farm in Kansas?” he asked, pulling together the scant details about her life she’d let drop over the last few days.
She shifted uncomfortably, but nodded. “My father had an old .38 we used to use for target practice.”
She’d effectively sidestepped that question about the old Mayhew family homestead. “So who got your father’s gun when he died?”
Her expression chilled. “My father isn’t dead.”
Abe frowned. “But you said you don’t have any family.”
“Because I don’t.” Once again she drew a breath and visibly shook herself. “I’m sorry. There I go again. I’m just mad I have to wait three days to get my gun. The reality of gun laws hit me pretty squarely when I was filling out the paperwork.”
“What do you mean?”
She grimaced. “Just that the guys I’m protecting myself against will have purchased theirs from a dealer that doesn’t exactly comply with gun laws. They’re armed while I wait.”
“You probably could have the waiting period waived.”
“And wouldn’t that look just peachy in Zoe Richard-son’s report?” She shook her head. “I don’t think so. No, I’ll just keep a tire iron under my pillow until I get my permit.”
He opened his mouth to say more, then closed it on a groan when the restaurant door opened. Kristen instantly sat up and pulled her hand back to her side of the table. “What?” she asked, twisting to look behind her, alarm on her face. “More reporters?”
“No, worse. My sister.” It was true. Rachel came in with what appeared to be a busload of teenagers, and the volume in the restaurant became suddenly overwhelming.
That Rachel wouldn’t see him was too much to hope. That she wouldn’t recognize Kristen was just pipe dreaming. From across the restaurant he could see Rachel’s eyes grow wide, and in less than a minute she was standing beside their table.
“Abe!” She leaned down and pecked his cheek. “I didn’t know you were going to be here tonight. Did you ask her? Did you?”
Abe sighed. Rachel’s request for an interview with Kristen for her school project. In all the activity it had simply slipped his mind. “No, Rach, we’ve been busy.”
Rachel frowned her displeasure. “Then at least introduce me so I can. Please?”
Abe sighed, more heavily this time. “Kristen Mayhew, this is my youngest sister Rachel. Rachel, this is Assistant State’s Attorney Mayhew.”
Saturday, February 21, 7:30 P.M.
“He doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
Jacob Conti could hear the voice of his butler outside the door of his darkened office where a tenor’s voice soared from the speakers to greet the final notes of his favorite aria. Normally he found this the most relaxing way to end the day, but today it was a farce. Angelo was missing, Elaine was in tears and Jacob knew what came next would be bad.
“He’ll want to see me,” Drake Edwards said.
No, I don’t want to see you, Jacob thought. But he silenced the aria with the remote. “Let him in.” He rose, furious that his legs trembled. He took one look at Drake’s face and sank back down into his chair. His head of security looked grim.
“I’m sorry, Jacob,” Drake said quietly. He brought a set of keys from his shirt pocket and Jacob instantly recognized the Northwestern emblem hanging from the chain. “We found the Corvette. Some kids say they found the keys on the front seat and were taking a joy ride.”
“And Angelo?” Jacob’s voice was hoarse.
Drake shook his head. “He was last seen at a bar off campus. His friends say he’d had a lot to drink, but he wouldn’t let anybody call him a cab.”
Stupid, stupid boy. “No, I guess he wouldn’t. Not Angelo.”
“Jacob, we …” Drake closed his eyes, his expression pained. “We found blood spattered on the driver’s seat.”
Jacob drew a breath. He’d have to tell Elaine. This would kill her. “I’ll wait to tell Mrs. Conti until we’re certain. Keep looking, Drake. And put men on Mayhew and those two detectives … Mitchell and Reagan. According to Richardson, the killer sends Mayhew letters. If Angelo’s—” He forced the word from his mouth, “hurt, they’ll know soon enough.”
Drake nodded stiffly. This was hard on him, too, Jacob thought. Drake had been with him for a long time, long before he was Jacob Conti, wealthy Chicago industrialist. Drake had been his right-hand man since he was running two-bit cons on lonely old ladies and doing the dirty work of others on the side. Drake was family. He’d changed Angelo’s diapers, taken him to the circus when he was just a kid. Drake’s heart had to be breaking.
“I already put men on the three of them and their bosses and the Richardson woman,” Drake said. “Jacob, try to get some rest. I won’t stop until we find Angelo.”
No, Drake wouldn’t stop looking. Jacob knew it as well as he knew his own name. But when he does find Angelo, will I still have a son?
Chapter Thirteen
Saturday, February 21, 9:30 P.M.
With a wave to the cruiser, Reagan pulled into her driveway, his headlights illuminating another vehicle sitting under her carport. “Looks like you have company,” he said.
“I don’t think so.” She never had company. Except for him. “I think the rental car company brought me another car.” Kristen squinted to see the make and model in the darkness. “It’s a Chevy.” She glanced over to find him studying her, his expression as intense and expectant as it had been the whole way to her house. There had been an air of anticipation hovering between them that made her jumpy and wistfully anxious all at once. “Maybe it’ll come with a global positioning system just like Skinner’s.”
The corner of Reagan’s mouth lifted. “Couldn’t hurt.”
The silence between them grew heavy and still his eyes held hers. He was waiting. For what she wasn’t sure. Yes, she was. Trouble was, she had no idea how to begin.
“Thank you,” she said. “I had a good time.” She really had. She’d met his sister and what seemed like four dozen of his sister’s friends. The kids had been noisy
and brash, but their youthful enthusiasm served to dissolve her depressed mood. They’d been curious about the case, which thanks to Rachel everyone knew about, and asked questions, most of them surprisingly pertinent. Rachel lapsed into an imitation of Zoe Richardson so irreverently funny that Kristen laughed until her ribs ached. Then the middle school crowd took over the other half of the restaurant, leaving Kristen and Reagan to talk in relative peace.
Reagan liked art, he told her, and they found they had Impressionists in common. Music was a slightly different matter. He preferred seventies rock while she admitted owning every Bee Gees’ album ever made, much to his disdain. She’d found Reagan’s company utterly charming. And comfortable. And enticing.
Once again he’d held her hand. No one had simply held her hand in a very long time. It made her crave more. And that frightened her even as it beckoned.
“I’m sorry about my sister. She can be…”
“A teenager?” Kristen supplied and his smile flashed.
“Yeah, I suppose that’s as good a word as any. You don’t have to do her little interview tomorrow afternoon, Kristen. I know she bugged you into it.”
Kristen shook her head. Rachel Reagan was quite the salesperson, she thought. One minute she was politely declining the girl’s request for an interview and the next minute she was accepting an invitation to a Reagan Sunday dinner tomorrow afternoon. “It’s okay.” And she found it really was. “I don’t mind.” In fact if I’m honest, I’m looking forward to it. “Besides, I can use all the good press I can get.”
Reagan grimaced. “Tony felt just terrible about that.”
“It was bound to happen. It wasn’t his fault the reporters were lying in wait outside. I just wish I knew when Richardson sleeps. She seems to be everywhere all the time.”
“At least, the uniform in front of your house can keep her from bothering you here.”
There was another heavy pause, and Kristen wished she was comfortable with the social words. She wished she could invite him in for tea without making it seem like a big deal. Even though it would be. Her skin still tingled from the sweep of his thumb across her palm. And she wanted him to do it again. She blew out a hard breath.