Die for Me (9 page)

He thought about the angry words the two had shared that afternoon, then the way Katherine had smoothed the hair from Sophie’s face before sending her back to finish her scan. Their relationship ran very deep. “You’ve known her since you were a girl.”

“She was the mother I never had. Is,” she corrected herself with a small smile. “She
is
the mother I never had.”

Her face was dirty and streaked from the tears she’d shed. Her hair was disheveled, a few straggling strands having come loose from the tight ball of braids at her nape. He found himself wanting to smooth the hair from her face, just as Katherine had done.

But not for the same reason. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

Tall and strong, with her green eyes and golden hair, Sophie Johannsen was a beautiful woman with a bright mind and a quick temper. And a soft heart. She intrigued him as no woman had for some time.
Two weeks,
he warned himself.
You wait two weeks, Ciccotelli.

But because his mind had already cut those two weeks down to one, he forced himself to change mental tracks. The sight of the body bag had triggered her extreme reaction. It didn’t take a detective to guess she’d seen one before.

“When did your mother die?” he asked and her hands stilled and her jaw tightened.

“She’s not dead,” she finally said, resuming her task.

Surprised, Vito frowned. “But . . . I don’t understand.”

Her smile was quick and flat. “That’s okay. Neither do I.”

It was a nice way of telling him to mind his own business. He was wondering how to probe deeper when she stopped working and began unbuttoning her coat. His brain stopped churning and he realized he was holding his breath, waiting to see what her bulky coat concealed. He wasn’t disappointed. She shrugged out of the coat, revealing a soft knit sweater that clung to every curve. He let the breath out as quietly as he could. Sophie Johannsen had a hell of a lot of curves.

She hung her coat on a hook on the back of the door, then turned back to her worktable, rolling her shoulders and he shoved his hands deeper in his pockets to keep from touching her. She glanced up at him before resuming her work. “You know you really can go. I’m fine here alone.”

Irritation scraped at him, obliterating whatever smooth segue he might have come up with. “So where is your mother then, if she’s not dead?”

Again her hands stilled and she turned only her head to look at him with a mixture of cool amusement and incredulity. “Katherine was right. You cops
are
nosy.” She said no more, concentrating on cleaning the piece as if she performed brain surgery.

Her dismissal irritated him. “Well? Where is she?”

She shot him a warning look and blew out an impatient breath. “So, tell me more about the brother who inhales chocolate.
Him
I can like.”

He’d pushed too far and for the life of him didn’t know why he’d done so. He wasn’t normally so rude. “Which translates to mind your own business,” he said ruefully.

She flashed a quick grin. “You detectives are so smart.” She lifted a brow as she opened the next cases. “So you and your brother are just bachelors roughing it?”

“You’re nosy, too, just more subtle about it,” he said and her warm chuckle told him he was right. It had been a while since he’d done this tango, but he still remembered the steps. She was establishing boundaries, which meant she was interested, too. “Tino’s kind of in between jobs. He was a commercial artist at this fancy advertising company, but they started taking on clients and projects he couldn’t morally support. So he quit. He couldn’t afford his condo in Center City anymore, so . . .”

“So you opened your home,” she said quietly. “That was nice of you, Vito.”

Her tone soothed his anger, brushing it away as if it had never been. “He’s my brother. And my friend.” And to Vito, that had always been reason enough.

She considered it for a moment, then nodded. “Then he’s a fortunate man.”

He said no more, warmed by the compliment she’d paid him with such effortless sincerity and a week was suddenly too long. The yearning was far stronger now. He wanted to race, to grab what he needed before it disappeared.
One day, Chick. At least sleep on it.
That he could try.

For now Vito contented himself in watching her go about her work. Finally, she stood and dusted her hands on her jeans. “I’m done.”

His hands itched to touch so he kept them in his pockets, not even offering to help her with her coat. “Then let’s go get your bike.”

Her brows slightly bent in question as she sensed his shift of mood. But apparently she really wasn’t as nosy as he was. “I’m parked around the back.”

Sunday, January 14, 11:55
P.M.

Sophie cast a wary glance up at Vito Ciccotelli as she locked the door to the Humanities building and led him to the parking lot. He’d watched her with an intensity that made her so nervous that what should have been a fifteen-minute cleaning had taken twice that long.

He’d watched her as a large cat would watch his prey, cautious and intent. She wondered why. Why he was so cautious, that was. She knew why she was the prey. She was accustomed to that look from men. When they got that look they wanted sex.

Sometimes they got it. But only when she needed it, too.

Which hadn’t been too often and certainly not recently. For the last six months she’d either been working or sitting with Anna, and before . . . Well, it was hard finding someone on the road and she never dated men on a dig. It was a politically foolish thing to do, career suicide. She ought to know. It only took one foolish, stupid, idiotic . . .

And years later, there was still talk.
Easy, needy . . . desperate.
She’d spent the years since focused on her career, striving to remain as sexless as possible. But she was human. She’d had to find men who’d never come in contact with her colleagues and that took time. So she’d spent the better part of her life alone, damning that one regrettable moment when she’d believed the smooth lies of a man she’d thought was her soul mate.

Not all men were pigs, she knew. Her uncle Harry was a sterling example of a kind, good man. Something inside her wanted to believe Vito Ciccotelli was as well. He obviously cared about people, both living and dead. She respected that.

Pocketing her key, she looked up at him. He was staring straight ahead into the night, his mind clearly elsewhere. Alone, she thought. Right now he looked very alone.

Two alone people might find a way not to be. For a while, anyway. It was something to consider. “Are you all right?” she asked. “You look . . . grim.”

“I’m sorry. My mind wandered.” He looked around. “Let’s get your bike and put it in the bed of my truck, then I’ll drive you home.”

Sophie lifted her brows. “My bike in your truck? I don’t think so.” She started walking and he followed, his huff of frustration audible.

She stopped next to her bike, and in the light of the streetlamps she saw his face flatten in surprise. “This is yours?”

“It is.” She unhooked her helmet from the seat. “Why?”

Sophie was relieved to see his broodiness had disappeared, replaced by a spark of excitement as he took a slow walk around her motorcycle. “Katherine said you had a bike. I thought she meant a
bicycle.
This . . .” He ran a hand over the engine reverently. “This is a real beauty.”

“You ride?”

“Yeah. Harley Buell.”

Fast and sleek. “Oooh. Racer.”

He looked up from his inspection and grinned. “Scares my mom to death.”

His delight was infectious so she grinned back. “You bad boy, you.”

He took another walk around the bike, stopping at the front tire so that he faced her. “I’ve never seen this BMW model before.”

“It’s a classic—1974. I got it when I was working in Europe. Zero to a hundred in under ten seconds.” She laughed. “God, it’s a rush.”

He suddenly sobered. “I
am
a cop, Sophie. You don’t speed, do you?”

Her grin disappeared. She wasn’t sure if he was serious, but decided to err on the side of caution. “Oh, I meant a hundred
kilometers
an hour. That’s barely sixty.”

He continued to frown for another second, and then his lips began to twitch. “Nice save. I’ll have to remember that one.”

Her chuckle was shaky. “You do that, Vito.” Setting the helmet firmly on her head, she patted her pockets, then frowned. “Oh, shit.” Frantically, she dug in each pocket and came up with everything but what she was looking for. “My keys are gone.”

“You just put it in your pocket.”

“That was the university key. I keep it on a separate ring. I’m only here once a week.” She closed her eyes. “If I lost my keys at the dig, I mean crime scene . . .”

Vito’s hand closed over her shoulder and gently squeezed. “Calm down, Sophie. If you lost them at the crime scene, they’re in the very safest place. We’ll be covering every inch of that ground with a fine-tooth comb. We’ll find them.”

She made herself breathe. “That’s good, but I kind of need them now. My bike keys, my house keys . . . and the Albright. Goddammit, Ted the Third’s gonna shit a ring.”

“The Albright?”

“The museum where I work. Ted the Third’s my boss. We don’t get along very well.”

“Why not?”

“He plays at being
The Historian,
” she said, dropping her voice dramatically. “Makes me do these damn tours.” She scowled. “I have to dress up.”

“And you don’t like to dress up?”

“I
am
a historian, dammit. I don’t just play at it. At least I didn’t.”

“So why did you take the job?”

She sighed, frustrated. “I needed the money for my gran’s nursing home and Ted the First was an archeological legend.”

“Ted the First is your boss’s grandfather?”

“Yeah. His collection comprises ninety percent of our exhibits.” She shrugged. “I thought working with the Albright Foundation would be good for my career. Now I’m just biding my time until something else is available.” She smiled ruefully. “There aren’t many medieval castles in Philly. And my pride won’t let me flip burgers at McDonald’s.”

“So when was the last time you felt your keys in your hand?” he asked quietly.

She closed her eyes and saw her hand closing over her keys. She looked up to find him watching her with that steady gaze once again. “That’s very good. Redirect my panic and clear my mind. The last time I had my keys was when I first got in your truck. It’s what was jangling against the garden stakes. Maybe I dropped them in your truck.”

He dug his own keys from his pocket, then smiled down at her, sending her heart into a Riverdance. “Let’s go look.”

Sophie’s mouth went dry and every nerve went zinging and she knew if she wasn’t careful she’d give him exactly what he wanted. Because at the moment she more than needed it. For the first time in a long time, she actually wanted it too. She took his keys and stepped back, needing the space. “No, I’ll go. You stay and check out my bike.”

She jogged around the building and past the funky ape to his truck. She patted the passenger seat, the floorboards, but found no keys. She remembered the bumpy access road to the gravesite and stuck her hand under the seat, hoping they’d bounced under. Then she sighed with relief when she felt them. But they were stuck on something.

She reached around behind the seat and winced as thorns pricked her palm. She pulled out a bouquet of wilted roses and frowned. They were obviously for someone, because stuck among the flowers was a white card. Before she could look away, the handwritten words registered.

A—I’ll always love you. V

The roses might have been for his mom, she thought, but men didn’t say
I’ll always love you
to their mothers, not like
that.
No men she wanted to know anyway.

So he was taken. Fair enough. But betrayal pricked at her heart. He’d watched her all day and he . . .
He what, Sophie?
He’d said he didn’t have anyone at home. But that was not necessarily an invitation.
Get a grip. You heard what you wanted to hear, because you were sad and needy. Desperate.
She wanted to cover her ears, but the word echoed inside her head. She forced herself to be reasonable.
He was nice to me.
And in the end, that was all he’d done. He’d made no improper advances. He’d been nothing but a gentleman. So of course he was taken. All the good ones were.

He was straddling her bike when she got back, looking lost in thought again. He blinked when she came close. “Did you find them?”

She held up her key ring and tossed him his. “Under the seat.”

“Okay.” He climbed off her bike. “Sophie, I . . . Thank you. You were a huge help today. I wish we could pay you for your time. But I did promise a pizza.” He lifted his brows. “I know a place that’s open late if you want to get one now.”

Sophie swallowed.
He’s taken.
She still wanted him . . .
So what kind of woman am I?
She made herself smile. “If your department really wants to pay me back, give me a get-outta-jail-free card for the next time I get pulled over for going too fast on my bike.”

Vito frowned. “I wasn’t talking about the department taking you out to dinner. I was talking about me.” He drew a deep breath. “I’m asking you to go to dinner with me.”