Cuff Me (14 page)

Jill subtly blew out a breath without showing Holly how frustrated she was. Not that she’d put a lot of stock in the letter. Caroline Jones had called their office about a half dozen times with “crucial information to the case,” and had been just a tad too eager to send over Holly’s letter.

It smelled more of aging, petty rivalry than it did
useful evidence, but in a case that seemed to be nothing
but
aging, petty rivalries, they couldn’t afford not to act on it.

Holly slapped her palms slightly against her thighs. “Oh, I almost forgot… I have something for you.”

Holly brushed needlessly against Vincent as she stood, and he shot Jill another exasperated look. She grinned widely at him as Holly went to a small writing desk in the corner.

Vin was just starting to stand—no doubt to move to safety—when Holly returned waving an envelope. “Here we go!”

Jill watched Vincent’s face as he accepted the already-open envelope, his eyes scanning the return address with a slight frown before pulling out the paper inside.

His jaw tensed as he read it, and when he lifted his eyes to Jill, she knew then… knew that whatever was in that letter meant that any hope they had of Holly Adams breaking down and admitting guilt had just gone out the window.

He handed it across the coffee table to Jill.

“You didn’t think to mention this last time?” he asked Holly.

Holly sat down beside him once more, crossing her legs and blinking innocently up at him. “Well, you’ll pardon me if I’m unaccustomed to being questioned in a murder investigation. I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly.”

Jill scanned the contents of the letter, taking in the seemingly official logo, the cookie-cutter phrasing of the letter that indicated it was a form letter, which in this case, made it all the more believable.

The pages that followed sealed the deal.

Jill looked up. “You called the cable company the night Lenora Birch was murdered.”

“The Wi-Fi wasn’t working,” Holly said, almost proudly. She pronounced “Wi-Fi” just a bit too precisely, the way someone unfamiliar with the technology would be.

Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose. “And all calls are recorded.”

“Yup,” Holly said, sounding quite pleased with herself. “I wrote them a letter asking if they could provide a transcript of the conversation, and that’s what you see there.”

Jill glanced down again at the transcript. A quick scan showed that it was exactly what one would expect from a tech-savvy customer service rep and a seventy-something woman who “couldn’t get to The Google.” Lots of, “I understand your frustration, ma’am,” countered with, “back in my day…”

And Holly couldn’t know it, as time of death wasn’t common knowledge, but the time stamp meant that Holly Adams was listening to an explanation of the difference between
modem
and
router
at the precise moment Lenora Birch had been pushed over that balcony.

“You two don’t seem happy,” Holly said, looking between Vincent and Jill.

“Of course we are,” Jill said with an automatic, not-entirely-genuine smile. “Just because we like to solve crimes doesn’t mean we enjoy finding people guilty.”

Vincent’s expression said otherwise.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Holly said, fiddling with the oversized ruby around her neck—just a tad overdressed for entertaining homicide detectives on a random Wednesday. “I meant that you aren’t happy. Soul happy.”

Vincent glanced at Jill and mouthed
soul happy?
with a lift of his eyebrow.

Jill kept her smile firmly in place. “I assure you, everything is just fine with us. Just the usual exhaustion from trying to solve a case.”

Holly pursed her lips. “No. That’s not it.”

“Excuse me?” Jill said, her smile slipping. She knew better to engage with a woman who’d proven she loved nothing more than to play games, but without knowing it, Holly Adams had hit on a nerve.

Or hell. Knowing Holly, she probably
had
known it.

“How’s the wedding planning coming along, Detective Henley?” Holly’s voice was sweet as sugar.

Jill kept hers just as sweet, even as her body went on high alert. “So great, thanks for asking.”

“Mm. Your young man, he’s handsome?”

“Very.”

“More handsome than
this
young man?” Holly asked with a speculative look at Vincent.

Jill nearly laughed at the obviousness of Holly’s ploy. She leaned forward. “Ms. Adams, the time to be matchmaker is
before
one of the people has a ring on her finger.”

Holly mimicked Jill’s posture, leaning forward with dancing, mischievous eyes. “You didn’t answer the question, Detective.”

Jill’s eyes flicked to Vin, even as she told herself not to humor the interfering older woman.

He was watching her with barely concealed amusement. Not exactly helping her out, but then, she supposed that was fair for the way she’d smirked at him earlier when Holly employed her best flirting techniques.

Then he lifted an eyebrow.

Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be.

She shifted her attention back to Holly, her voice even more sugary than before. “I’m sure plenty of women would find Detective Moretti perfectly handsome.” Jill let her shoulders lift in a little shrug. “But he’s more like a brother to me. I really can’t see him like that.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Holly said, sounding skeptical as she shifted her attention to Vin. “And you, Detective. Do you think of your partner like a sister?”

Jill looked at Vin, a little smile on her lips as she waited for whatever his one-up would be on her jab.

He stared at her for what seemed like an uncomfortably long time.

“No,” he said finally. “No, I’ve never thought of Detective Henley as a sister.”

Jill’s smile dropped. Not so much because of the words. But the look on his face. The heat in his eyes.

And irrationally, she felt angry. At him.

“Oh really?” Holly said, her eyes wide, her hand laying against her heart in a forced, oh-my-goodness-me manner.

Jill stuffed the printed transcript back into the envelope not as gently as she should have, and held it up. “Can we take this?” she asked.

“Of course,” Holly murmured, her attention still locked on Vincent’s steely profile. “Detective Moretti, how did you feel upon learning your partner was getting married?”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Jill muttered as she stood. “Vin, let’s head out.”

He didn’t stand with her, although he didn’t stop looking at her as he answered Holly’s question. “I don’t love it. I don’t love the fact that she’s getting married.”

Her jaw dropped. “Seriously? We are not doing this here.”

And then she completely contradicted herself by sitting down once more. “What do you mean you don’t love it? It’s not for you to love. Or decide. You get no say.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t say I did. Just said I didn’t like it.”

“Well that’s just… that’s just…”
Unfair
.

She had nothing to say to Vincent, so she shifted her attention to Holly. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear, am I stirring the pot?”

“You know perfectly well that you are,” she said quietly. “Vin. Let’s head out.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Holly said, holding out her hand.

“I do,” Jill snapped, knowing that she wouldn’t like what was going to come out of Holly Adams’s mouth next.

Seriously, why the hell was Vin just sitting there?

He didn’t let his own mother ask questions about his personal life, and here he was letting a meddling stranger just have at it.

And then it hit her… that sense she’d been having all week that a storm was coming. This was it.
This
was the storm she’d been fearing.

Holly had shifted all of her attention to Vincent now, who had a placid, you-can-ask-me-anything look on his face, and abruptly Jill realized that they’d somehow just switched roles.

She’d become the snippy bad cop, and he was the cooperative one.

“Have you and Detective Henley ever dated?” Holly asked Vincent.

Vin didn’t look at her as he responded with a clipped “No.”

“Hmm, that surprises me,” Holly said, leaning forward and pouring both herself and Vincent more tea from a porcelain pot. She didn’t offer Jill any.

“How’s that?” Vincent asked.

“The way you look at her.”

It was a good thing Jill wasn’t offered any more tea. She would have dropped the cup just then.

Vincent, on the other hand, went perfectly still. Nothing except his eyes moved.

Eyes that found Jill’s.

“How do I look at her?” His voice was low. Gravelly.

This was, without a doubt, the most bizarre, the most insane, the most
painful
interrogation she’d ever been on.

“You’re letting her take control of the conversation,” Jill said. “This is beyond inappropriate.”

“I don’t give a shit about appropriateness,” he said.

“Well, I do!”

“You do not,” Vincent said, leaning forward and setting his teacup on the table. “This isn’t about what’s
appropriate
. This is about you not wanting to have this conversation.”

“I didn’t even know there was a conversation to be had!” she said.

“That’s bullshit,” he shot back. “You’ve been goading me every chance you get. The other day I told you I was happy for you. And yet still, you keep poking at me with your talk of meatballs and honeymoon locations and black tie versus cocktail attire.”

“I wasn’t
goading
, I was asking you because you’re my friend.”

“Am I? Really? Because a
friend
doesn’t disappear for three months, come back engaged with not so much as a word of warning.”

“Well, pardon me for assuming that my gruff, non-talkative partner would care about my love life.”

“I cared!” he roared. “I’ve always fucking cared!”

Jill stared at him, speechless, both of them breathing too hard.

Holly continued to sip her tea, looking pleased as punch with herself. No doubt this was the best entertainment she’d had in years.

“We shouldn’t be having this conversation in front of a suspect.”

“I’m still a suspect then?” Holly asked petulantly.

“Yes,” Jill snapped at the same time Vincent muttered, “No.”

There was a long, pained silence, before Jill took a deep breath and looked at Holly. “We just need to verify the authenticity of the letter is all.”

“Well then!” Holly said, all chipper-like. “You’d best get on that! I’d like my name cleared as quickly as possible.”

Should have thought of that before you decided to stir the pot.

This time when Jill stood, Vincent did as well. But he didn’t look at her.

Not when they walked to the door and bid a terse farewell to a far-too-chipper Holly. Not when they got into the car.

Not on the entire drive back to New York.

They rode in ice-cold silence.

Protocol demanded that they stop by the station. File some paperwork, put Holly’s letter into evidence…

But Vincent was apparently far beyond protocol, because he drove them straight home to Queens. Which Jill was just fine with. She didn’t think she could be civil to him right now if someone paid her.

It will be better in the morning
, she told herself.
We’ll cool off. He’ll realize he was just trying to piss me off.

He pulled up in front of her apartment, and Jill knew it was rude, but she didn’t say a word to him as she grabbed her purse.

She slammed the door as she got out because it felt good.

It wasn’t until she reached the front door that she realized Vin was right behind her.

“What are you—”

She spun around, only to find herself backed against the door by one very livid, very close cop.

Wordlessly, he pulled her keys from her hand and without moving away from her, slowly reached around and unlocked her door.

He unlocked it, pushing it open just barely.

“What the hell, Moretti? In case it wasn’t evident by the last three hours of silence, I have no interest in talking—”

“Oh, we’re talking,” he said, his voice gravelly.

His hand slowly, deliberately rested low on her throat as he pushed her backward into her house.

Followed her inside.

His brown eyes were black with anger. “We’re having this talk, and we’re having it now.”

V
incent could feel Jill’s heartbeat against his palm as he roughly pushed her back into her apartment.

He told himself the feel of it didn’t excite him—that
her
excitement didn’t excite him—but he’d be lying.

And it was excitement Jill was feeling, at least for a moment. He saw it in the flash of her eyes, the catch of her breath.

But then her pointy little chin jutted out in defiance as the anger overtook her once more.

Her anger was justified.

She had every right to be downright pissed, because damned if he hadn’t been widely out of line by allowing Holly Adams to manipulate them.

But damn. The old biddy had known all the buttons to push. Buttons that had been blinking red in Vincent’s
peripheral vision since Jill’d returned from Florida with that fucking rock on her finger.

And he’d just… lost it.

“You don’t get to decide when we talk,” Jill was saying. “You don’t get to just stew for months—no,
years
—and then snap your fingers and decide to become an open book. In front of a suspect, no less.”

“Holly Adams didn’t kill Lenora Birch, and you know it,” he growled.

“Doesn’t mean we should be talking about our personal life in front of her!”

He leaned down so their faces were inches apart. “So you admit we have a personal life.”

“Of course we do. We’re friends. Although we won’t be if you keep this up.”

Vin yanked his palm back from where it had been resting against her collarbone.

It was as though she burned him. Not by the warmth of her skin, but by the white-chill fire of her words.

Friends
.

Jill thought of him as a friend.

Vincent swallowed.

When had friends stopped feeling like enough?

When had that one simple word ripped down to his very gut?

She lifted her hands as she opened her mouth, then let them fall, and the defeated slump of her shoulders was a little jab to his heart.

“What’s going on, Vin?”

What’s going on is that I can’t stand the thought that in a couple short months, you’ll be some other man’s.
What’s going on is that I only have a few weeks left to convince you that…

Fuck.

Fuck!

What did he want to convince Jill of?

That he was the man for her?

Because he wasn’t.

Jill’s favorite holiday was Valentine’s Day, for Chrissake.

Vincent didn’t do hearts and flowers. Or love.

But companionship and sex? He wanted those things.

With Jill?

He closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t know.”

“Well, you seemed to know when you were gossiping with Holly Adams,” she said, starting to put her hands on her hips, confrontation-style, only ending up wrapping her arms around her middle. Defensive-like.

She was
literally
withdrawing from him, and it made Vin want to punch something.

He moved past her toward the kitchen.

Vincent was no stranger to Jill’s home. They’d had dozens—
hundreds
—of working dinners at her kitchen table, arguing over Chinese food.

There’d been birthday parties, and dinner parties, and random Saturday night movie marathons when neither of them had any plans.

But as he opened her fridge, it hit him that this was the first time he’d been here since she’d gotten back from Florida.

Yet another testament to how much had changed between them, and yet one more thing that had Vin wanting to hit something.

Jill followed him in, not saying a word as he rummaged around in her fridge looking for a much-needed beer.

Not finding anything, he moved to the small cabinet where she sometimes kept wine and pulled out a bottle of Chianti and wordlessly held it up to her in question.

She shrugged out of her jacket, dropped it on the back of a kitchen chair, and hesitated only briefly before nodding.

He found her corkscrew in its usual spot in the drawer to the right of the sink. Watched out of the corner of his eye as she opened the freezer and pulled out a frozen pizza.

Jill put the pizza in the oven while he poured them both hefty glasses of the under-ten-dollar Chianti.

He held out a glass to her and she reached for it, although he noticed that she seemed strangely careful not to let their fingers brush.

They hadn’t said a word since their heated exchange in the foyer, and Vincent held up a glass. “Truce?”

Jill rolled her eyes as she clinked her glass to his. “I don’t even know what we’re trucing over.”

He took a sip of wine and watched her.
Get out of this, man. Take it back to safe territory. Fix it!

“How are you?” he asked.

Her glass paused halfway to her mouth, and her nose wrinkled. “How
am
I?”

Vincent shrugged, not really sure why he asked, and yet instinctively knowing that someone needed to ask her.

And that someone should be him.

“You spend four to five days a week with me,” Jill said with a little laugh. “You know how I am.”

“Do I?” he asked.

Do you?
Vincent said the words to himself.
Do you know how you are?

She blew out a breath, then took her wine to the kitchen table, where she folded one leg up beneath her and sat down, both hands cupped around her glass.

“I don’t know how I am,” she said.

He leaned back against the counter and nodded once, hoping she’d continue.

“I feel…” She glanced up. “I feel lost. I don’t know if it’s the case, or the wedding planning, or the fact that Tom and I are apart more often than we’re together.”

He withheld his flinch, barely.

Then she shook her head. “Actually, that’s not it. None of that is the problem.”

“No?” he asked.

Her eyes locked on his. “No. The problem is you.”

“Me.”

“Look, Vin, we’ve always been open with each other, so I’m going to lay it out for you. Since I’ve been back, you and me… we’ve been off. Horribly so.”

“I know,” he replied quietly.

“What the hell happened today?” Jill asked. “One minute we were interrogating a suspect, and the next we were interrogating each other, although I’m not even sure what about.”

He sipped his wine, then wordlessly turned his back, pulling two plates out of her cupboard, then two paper towels, before checking the pizza in the oven.

Vin was buying time—stalling—so that he could think, and Jill probably knew it, but she didn’t pester him.

The pizza wasn’t done for another five minutes, and he didn’t speak that entire time.

Only once he’d cut them each a hefty slice and sat across from her at the table did he finally speak.

“It’s the same thing I told you the other night. I don’t want you to go to Chicago,” he said.

Jill had just started to bite and choked, a stringy piece of cheese clinging to her chin.

She chewed as she wiped the cheese away with her paper towel. “I have to.”

“Do you?” he countered, taking his own bite of pizza. It wasn’t great. Typical frozen-quality with the crust only a shade better than cardboard, but it had everything but the kitchen sink piled on top, which helped a little.

She reached for her wineglass. “Tom’s job is there.”

“And your job is
here
.”

Jill’s eyes glanced to her plate, and he knew he’d struck a nerve. Or if not a nerve, at least he was voicing something out loud that she’d put plenty of thought toward.

“Okay, I’m having déjà vu,” she said. “Didn’t we just do this two weeks ago? And we ended up hugging in your kitchen, agreeing everything was okay?”

“Well, it’s not okay, Henley. It’s all fucked up.”

She blinked a little, probably surprised at his forthrightness considering he’d been anything but direct with her all day. All month.

Vincent pushed his plate away, pizza barely touched, and he’d grabbed her hand before he realized what the hell he was doing.

The shock of her fingers in his rippled through him; the same surprise echoed on Jill’s face as she stared down at where his right hand rested on her left.

She didn’t pull away, but her features went immediately wary.

He didn’t know what he was going to say, only knew that he had to say something, had to convince her that she belonged here. In New York. With him.

That he couldn’t imagine what his days would look like without her.

That he didn’t know how to be without her.

“Jill, I—” The words got lodged in his throat.

And then they became permanently lodged there, because…

Jill’s phone rang.

They stared at each other for several long moments as the unmistakable sound of a vibrating cell phone buzzed from her purse.

For one wonderful, hopeful moment, he thought she might let it go to voice mail. That she needed to hear what he had to say as urgently as he needed to speak it.

Then her hand pulled away from his.

Jill licked her lips nervously, glancing in the direction of her purse. “I should get that. It could be—”

She broke off, but not before Vincent dropped his head in defeat as he silently finished her sentence for her.

Tom
. It could be Tom.

Jill touched his shoulder as she passed, just briefly, and he all but batted her hand away. Her touch was the touch of someone who felt sorry for the other person.

Objectively, he knew it was meant to appease him. To ease his ache. Instead it made it worse.

And then she picked up her phone with a quiet “hey.”

She didn’t say Tom’s name. She was kind enough for that. But she slipped into her bedroom and quietly closed the door.

He took both their plates to the sink. Rinsed his
wineglass and put it away. He could still hear Jill’s voice coming from the bedroom. Muffled as though she were intentionally keeping her voice down.

For his sake?

Maybe.

Vincent braced both hands on Jill’s kitchen counter as he stared blindly at her coffeepot for several long, torturous moments.

He breathed in, breathed out.

He waited for a minute. Two minutes. Five.

Waited for Jill to remember he was out here. Remember that they had a conversation that needed to happen.

He waited ten minutes.

Waited for Jill to choose him.

Her door stayed shut.

And then he realized… Jill wasn’t going to choose him. Not now.

Not ever.