Deeply, Desperately (3 page)

I laid a hand on her arm. "But how do you know he's not good enough? Em's never said a bad word about him."

"Look, Lucy, do you ever just get a vibe? A feeling? Down deep?"

"Do you remember who you're talking to?"

"Okay, then. You should know. There's something just off. I can feel it." She held up the notepad. "There's a phone number indented." She found a pencil in one of the drawers and started coloring over the numbers--a trick straight out of a
Magnum, PI
rerun.

She was utterly and completely convinced that Joseph was up to no good. I could either walk away from all this, dismissing her gut feeling, or I could trust her--just like I asked people who didn't entirely understand my abilities to trust me.

Put like that, I really didn't have a choice in the matter. "Can you read the number?"

Pulling out her cell phone, she nodded and punched in the seven digits. She put the phone on speaker so I could hear.

A female voice said, "Spar, reservations."

Marisol didn't miss a beat. "Sorry, wrong number." She hung up and looked at me. "See?"

She did have a point. Spar was an ultratrendy bar in the Back Bay and known as one of the biggest meat markets around for up-and-comers. I didn't point out that Joseph probably took clients there--as an executive banker, he was out to impress potential business
partners and a trip to Spar would be just the thing for a certain clientele.

"He's probably been out living it up while Em was working twenty-hour shifts at the hospital."

"But what about now?" I asked. Em had quit her job as a pediatric intern and was planning on going back to school for an early-education degree. "Em doesn't start classes until January. She's home all the time now."

Marisol strode into Em and Joseph's bedroom. I stopped at the door. There was no way I was going in. I looked around. Minimalist in there too, with only a bed and two nightstands. On Em's, there were two picture frames. One held a black-and-white engagement photo of her and Joseph, looking all demure and sophisticated. The other was a picture of Em, Marisol, and me, about seven years old, sitting on a beach blanket having just eaten red, white, and blue Popsicles. Our arms were linked so tight it looked as if we were never planning on letting go of each other. We were all grinning ear to ear, teeth missing, our lips smeared in red and blue. We hadn't a care in the world at that point, not really.

And now here Marisol and I were, breaking and entering Em's home. Something like this could cause a serious ripple in our friendship with Em--if she ever found out.

She could never find out.

"Sure, but she's so wrapped up in planning the wedding--Aha!"

Marisol came out of the bathroom, carrying a box of Trojans in the air like a trophy.

"I think we should go," I said, peeking over my shoulder. I was quite sure
GUILTY
was stamped all over my face.

"Hidden behind a stack of washcloths in his vanity."

I closed my eyes, counted to ten.

"Em's been on the pill since she was sixteen," Marisol pointed out.

I cracked open an eyelid. I'd forgotten. "Maybe they're old."

Marisol checked the expiration date. "Nope. New."

I hadn't even known condoms had an expiration date. I should probably learn things like that if I wanted to take my relationship with Sean to the next level. "Okay, so what now?"

"Now," she said, a wicked gleam in her eye, "we get serious."

As if breaking and entering and poking through your best friend's private life wasn't serious. Slightly afraid of the answer, I asked, "What do you have in mind?"

"Oh, you'll see, but I'm going to need your help."

Taking a deep breath, I raised the collar of my wool peacoat against the bitterly cold December gusts blowing through the streets of downtown Boston. Marisol had dropped me off at the corner, and I trudged, head down, against the cold, toward the Valentine, Inc., office.

The three-story brick building, sandwiched between similar brick buildings on touristy Beacon Street, had been owned by my family for years and years. The Porcupine, a small restaurant leased by Maggie Constantine, occupied the first floor; Valentine, Inc., the second; and the third floor was leased to Sam Donahue, Sean's brother. In the past, their private investigation company, SD Investigations, had provided discounted services to Valentine, Inc., in exchange for a break in the rent, and now Lost Loves was one of SD Investigation's biggest clients.

Beacon Street was crowded for three o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon. I noticed the shopping bags in people's gloved hands and winced. I'd been working so much I hadn't bought many Christmas presents yet.

I glanced in the windows of the Porcupine and
wasn't the least bit surprised to see Raphael inside manning the cash register. He'd recently begun to date Maggie, the Porcupine's feisty owner--a match nearly five years in the making. By the color of their auras, my father had known they were destined for each other but had bided his time until they figured it out for themselves.

Technically Raphael still worked as my father's right-hand man, but lately he'd been spending more and more time at the Porcupine, helping Maggie with day-to-day operations.

I pushed open the door, breathed in delicious scents of sauteing garlic and onion.

Raphael beamed when he saw me. "Uva! You're a sight for these old eyes." He came around the counter and wrapped me in a hug. Raphael gave the best hugs--and had been giving them to me since I was three years old.

After my parents secretly separated twenty-five years ago, my father had moved to his penthouse in Boston and hired Raphael to take care of his life ... and me. Dad liked to swoop in to lavish me with love and praise, or lecture about impudence and attitude, but hated all the in-between. When I was little, board games bored him. Homework drove him to the liquor cabinet. And any talk of proms, boyfriends, makeup, or school events had him running for the door. He left that all to Raphael--who hadn't minded a bit.

"Hardly old, Pasa," I said, using my special nickname for him.

Raphael was on the shorter side of five ten, with crinkled olive skin, dark eyes, and salt-and-pepper
hair, more pepper than salt. Recently he'd started growing a mustache and beard, and I couldn't get over the change. I wasn't a fan of the look, but Maggie loved it.

My opinion lost out in that battle.

"Mmm-hmm. You wouldn't be biased, Uva?"

He'd been calling me "Uva," Spanish for grape, since the day he chaperoned one of my school field trips when I was five years old. I'd thrown a tantrum on the deck of the
Mayflower II
and turned as purple as a Concord grape. Not long after I began calling him "Pasa," Spanish for raisin.

Raphael had been part of my life for as long as I could remember. There were photos of us together making Play-Doh cookies when I was three, of him waving to me as I stepped on the school bus my first day of kindergarten (my mother was a firm believer in public education, much to my father's dismay), at my sixth grade, eighth grade, and high school graduations. As best I could recall, he'd never missed an important event in my life. Not a single one.

I loved him more than I could ever express.

I sat at the lunch counter. "Hardly."

"Coffee?"

"I'd die for coffee." I couldn't feel my fingers. If this weather kept up, it was going to be the coldest winter on record.

He slid a mug over to me. "Leave the dying to us old folks."

"You're not old." I sipped at the coffee. Heaven.

"Sixty-one next birthday."

"I'll be sure to get an over-the-hill card."

He wrung a dishtowel.

I set my mug down. "You're not serious? Didn't you know sixty is the new forty?"

"Then what's forty? The new twenty? Either way, I'm still twenty years older than Maggie."

"Sixteen."

"Close enough."

"Is this about the beard?" I asked.

He glanced over his shoulder. "Don't you hate it?"

"More than anything."

He laughed. "Me too. Me too."

"So shave."

"But Maggie likes it."

I read between the lines. Maggie liked it, and he liked Maggie ... "She liked you just fine without it."

"It does cover the wrinkles."

I stood up. "That's it. I'm leaving. You're not old. Or wrinkled. Or old."

"Come for dinner tonight?" he asked. "Your father just called and said he has last-minute plans. I have a whole pot of cacciatore simmering."

I scrunched my nose. "I'm supposed to be meeting Em and Marisol."

"Bring them."

"You sure?"

"Nothing would make me happier."

Or them. They loved Raphael almost as much as I did.

"Okay." I leaned across the counter and kissed his furry cheek. "Weren't you always the one telling me to never change who I was for someone else?"

He snapped the towel at me. "Get out of here, you. Throwing my words back at me."

I blew him a kiss as I opened the door, braced against the cold. I slid my key card through the lock of the nondescript door that opened into the stairwell leading to the upper floors. Beautiful cherrywood stairs shone in the late afternoon light filtering through the decorative windows overlooking the Public Garden. I didn't so much as pause at the second-floor landing, but headed straight up to the third floor to see Sean.

The reception desk was empty, as it usually was. Rumor was Sean and his brother Sam couldn't keep a receptionist on staff. Sam blamed their last full-timer, Rosalinda, a tiny wisp of a woman who apparently had ties to Santeria. Word was that when she was fired for a little embezzlement, she placed a curse on whoever took over her job. All six women after her had quit for one reason or another.

As I knew a thing or two about curses, I hadn't laughed when Sean and Sam told me about it, but suggested they look into asking Rosalinda's forgiveness.

I think they thought I was kidding.

The scent of a Yankee candle filled the air, something strongly laced with berry. A hint of coffee tainted the smell, beckoning me to the coffeepot in the small utility kitchen off the hallway beyond the empty reception area.

For some reason I felt at home up here with the burnt-orange walls, thick area rugs, and masculine paintings. Maybe because I sensed Sean in the space. Though he spent a lot of time in my office now, this felt like his territory.

My hands full with a mug and my tote bag, I
stopped at the hallway console, looked into the mirror hanging on the wall. My hair, blond and unruly, fell well below my shoulders. I smoothed it down, hoping to control the waves. No luck. Unless I used a flatiron, my hair would always have a mind of its own. I plucked an eyelash off my cheek, wished on it.

When I opened my eyes, Sean was standing behind me. My heart did a little thumpity, thump, thump.

"What did you wish for?" he asked.

"Can't tell."

"Very secretive of you, Ms. Valentine."

It was a thing between us, using salutations with each other. For some reason I found it extremely sexy. But then again, everything about Sean was extremely sexy.

"Some things should be very closely guarded."

He crossed his arms over his chest. His black hair had grown out a bit, the short spikes I was used to now curling softly at the ends. "And exactly how am I going to get you to let your guard down?"

"There may be ways."

I took in his once-broken nose, his high cheekbones, his superhero jaw, his lips. I dropped my gaze. He wore charcoal-gray pants, black boots, black belt, a blue button-down shirt, the top two buttons open, the sleeves rolled. Under the collar, I could barely see the scar from his heart surgery.

He tapped his chin. "Chocolate?"

I crunched up my nose.

"Alcohol? Maybe some spiked eggnog?"

My mouth was impossibly dry. "Are you suggesting you get me drunk? And then what, Mr. Donahue?"

He smiled wickedly. His eyes promised things my libido had only dreamed of. My heart nearly stopped right there.

Very slowly, he said, "Some things should be very closely guarded." He boxed me against the console table. Our hearts raced against each other.

With the tip of his finger, he nudged my chin upward.

Sighing, I looked into his eyes.

A stunning pearly gray, they were filled with lust. I nearly crumbled.

I didn't know how much longer I could hold out. And right now, this very minute, I was having trouble remembering why I wanted to take things so slowly.

Lifting my lips to his, I flinched when something vibrated against my hip.

And right then I remembered why I'd wanted to take things slowly.

Cupid's Curse.

And it was at work.

"Is that you or me?" I asked, drawing back.

He mumbled under his breath about timing, and said, "Me." He pulled his BlackBerry from his pocket, checked the screen. Some of the color drained from his face as his eyebrows snapped into a concerned V shape.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Nothing." He tucked the phone back into his pocket without answering.

"Something."

He cupped my face, leaned in and kissed me until my toes curled inside my boots. I'd always thought
that just a phrase--had never believed toes could curl. How wrong I'd been. And it made me wonder how else my body would react if it had his full and undivided attention.

I grew warm. Very warm.

Slowly, he pulled away.

"Good try, Mr. Donahue, but I'm not so easily distracted."

"No?"

We had an undeniable connection. His caresses, his skin on mine, even if we were simply sitting shoulder to shoulder, created a whirl pool of desire, pulling me closer to him, making me fall that much harder, when I knew better. It didn't help that his was the only hand I touched where I saw visions of things other than lost objects. When I touched him, I saw visions of us together in the future. Usually sexy in nature.

Those visions had always come true, but I'd yet to have one where I saw us having twenty-four hours of the best sex ever.

Unfortunately.