Hidden Riches (20 page)

“I'm not tired. All this coffee will probably keep me awake for . . . I nearly brought Richie back here with me tonight.” That thought churned in her stomach. “If he . . .” That was one train of thought she couldn't afford to indulge. “It should have been safe here.”

“It will be.” Gently he laid his hands on her shoulders and kneaded the tight muscles. “The next time I go out for cigarettes and milk, I'll take you with me.”

“Is that where you were?” Because she wanted to lean back against him, a little too much, she picked up the cups and carried them into the kitchen. “I didn't see any bag.”

“I left it in the car when I heard you scream.”

The cups rattled when she set them down on the counter. “Good thinking. Do you always take a gun to the market?”

“They really hose you for milk in those convenience stores.” He touched her hair when she managed a choked laugh.

“Don't worry, I'm not falling apart.”

“I'm not worried.” But he left his hand on her hair, lightly. “Do you want me to call your sister? Your father or your mother?”

“No.” Dora plugged the sink, flipped on the water. “I guess I'll have to tell them something tomorrow, and that'll be bad enough.”

She wasn't fooling with dishes out of a sense of neatness, he knew, but because she was postponing that moment of being alone again. At least that was something he could take care of.

“Tell you what, why don't I bunk out on the couch for tonight? I promise not to leave shaving gunk in the bathroom sink.”

With one indulgent sigh, she shut off the tap and turned to bury her face against his chest. “Thanks.”

He hesitated, then slipped his arms around her. “Don't thank me yet. I might snore.”

“I'll risk it.” She rubbed her cheek against his. “I'd tell you that you could share the bed, but—”

“Bad timing,” he finished.

“Yeah. The worst.” She eased away. “I'll get you a pillow.”

S
he looked good. Really good. Jed hadn't spent much time observing sleeping women, and certainly not unless they'd shared the bed with him, but none had looked better than Dora in the morning.

She slept sprawled on her stomach, her hair, tousled from the night, was swept back from her cheek, leaving her face unframed but for the fringe of bangs. She looked enormously appealing.

He'd thought it was because of those big, dark eyes, and the way they dominated her expressive face. But the eyes were closed now, the face at rest.

And she still looked damn good.

Maybe it was her skin. Dora's skin was like silk, smooth white silk faintly blushed with rose.

He shook himself, both embarrassed and appalled by his
train of thought. When a man started thinking up metaphors about a woman's skin, he was in deep.

Jed walked over, set his mug on the nightstand, then sat on the edge of the bed.

He could smell her—that carelessly sexy scent that always made his mouth go dry. Another problem, he decided, when a man fell into the obvious perfume trap.

“Isadora.” He touched her shoulder over the thick quilt, shook lightly, as he had every two hours through the night to be certain she was lucid.

She made a sound that was caught somewhere between pouty and annoyed, and turned over. The movement slithered the quilt down past her shoulders. Thoughtfully, Jed studied the flannel gown she'd chosen. It looked thick as a suit of armor and was an eye-popping blue. He made out two little pink appliqués that looked like pigs' ears. Curious, he lifted the quilt. Sure enough, a fat pink pig face grinned back at him.

He imagined she'd selected it because she thought it would be warm, and completely sexless.

She'd been half right, he decided, and dropped the quilt.

“Isadora.” He shook her shoulder again, then took hold of it to prevent her from turning aside. “Izzy,” he whispered close to her ear. “Wake up.”

“Go away, Dad.”

Grinning, he leaned closer and caught the lobe of her ear between his teeth. That had her eyes springing open. It also kindled a ball of heat in the direct center of her body.

She blinked, focused, but before she could orient herself found her mouth thoroughly captured. Dazed, she lifted a hand to his shoulder, fingers digging in as the ball of heat erupted.

“You awake now?” Jed murmured, and pleased himself by nipping lightly at her lower lip.

“Oh yeah. Wide.” She cleared her throat, but her voice remained sleepily husky.

“Who am I?”

“Kevin Costner.” She smiled and stretched her shoulders. “Just a little harmless fantasy of mine, Skimmerhorn.”

“Isn't he married?”

“Not in my fantasies.”

Only a little miffed, Jed leaned back. “How many fingers?”

“Three. I thought we established I was all right last night.”

“We're reestablishing it this morning.” Her eyes were heavy—sexily so, he noted. But the pupils were normal. “How's the head?”

She lay still a minute, taking inventory. Besides the tingling going on, there were aches. Entirely too many of them. “It hurts. My shoulder's sore, too.”

“Try these.”

Dora looked down at the aspirin in his hand. “Two? Skimmerhorn, I take two when I break a nail.”

“Don't be such a wimp.” He knew that would do it. She scowled, took the pills, then the mug of coffee he offered.

Irritation turned to surprise at the first sip. “Pretty good coffee. Almost tastes like mine.”

“It is yours—your beans, anyway. I watched you do it once.”

“Quick study.” Wanting to enjoy the moment, she plumped a pillow at her back and snuggled into it. “Did you sleep okay on the couch?”

“No, but I slept. I used the shower. Don't you have any soap that isn't shaped like little flowers or swans?”

“I had some sea horses, but I used them up.” She leaned forward, sniffed at him as she toyed with the dark blond hair curled damply over his collar. “Mmmm. Gardenia.”

He covered her face with his hand and gently shoved her back.

“Tell you what,” she offered. “The next time I'm out shopping, I'll see if I can find some shaped like a little
weight lifter. With that appealing masculine aroma of sweaty gym socks.”

With the mug cupped in both hands, she sipped again, sighed. “I can't remember the last time anyone brought me coffee in bed.” Smiling, she tilted her head and studied him. With his hair damp from her shower, his chin shadowed with stubble and his eyes nearly as annoyed as they were beautiful, he made a very appealing picture.

“You're a tough one to figure, Skimmerhorn. You had to know with minimal effort you could have been in here with me last night. You knew what buttons to push, but you didn't push them.”

“You were hurt and you were tired.” But he'd thought about it. Oh yeah, he'd thought about it. “I'm not an animal.”

“Oh, yes you are. You're this big, restless, ill-tempered animal—and that's part of the allure.” She ran her fingers along the cheek he hadn't bothered to shave. “All those hard muscles and that bad attitude. There's something irresistible about knowing you have an equal capacity for mean as you do for kindness. I'm a sucker for bad boys with soft hearts.”

He took the hand she pressed to his cheek, intended to push it away. But she linked her fingers with his and sat up to kiss him. Very softly, very sweetly, so that every muscle in his body throbbed in reaction.

“You're pressing your luck, Dora.”

“I don't think so.”

He could have proven her wrong, would have if he hadn't been able to see the headache so clearly in her eyes. He could have pushed her back on the bed, purging that feral need she'd built inside him.

But he didn't, because there was no way to take what he wanted without hurting her.

“Listen to me.” He spoke carefully, keeping his eyes on hers. “You don't know me. You don't know what I'm capable of, or what I'm not capable of. The only thing
you can be sure of is that I want you, and when I'm certain you're a hundred percent, I'm going to have you. I won't ask.”

“There's no need for that, since I've already answered yes.”

“And I won't be kind.” He looked down at their joined hands and deliberately let hers go. “It won't matter a damn to me if you're sorry after.”

“When I make a choice, I don't play the hindsight game. I also know you're not warning me, you're warning yourself.”

He dropped his hands and rose. “We've got other things to deal with today. What are you doing about the shop?”

“We're closed today.”

“Good. We've got to get down to the station house. Get yourself together, and I'll make some breakfast.”

“Can you?”

“I can pour milk on cold cereal.”

“Yummy.”

She tossed the quilt aside as he started out. “Oh, Conroy,” he said over his shoulder, “I like your pig.”

 

While Jed and Dora were sharing a box of cornflakes, DiCarlo paced his New York apartment. He hadn't slept. He'd worked his way through half a bottle of Cutty Sark during the long night, but the effects couldn't dull his fevered mind or give him peace.

He couldn't go back to Philadelphia. The dead cop was one thing, but he'd left behind two witnesses. Two who had certainly seen his face well enough for an ID.

They'd make him, DiCarlo thought grimly, and poured another glass. And they'd tie him to the dead patrol. If there was one thing DiCarlo knew about cops, it was that they were relentless in pursuing anyone who'd killed one of their own.

So not only couldn't he return, but he'd need to go underground, at least until the weather chilled. A couple
of months, he mused. Six at the most. That was no problem. He had plenty of contacts, plenty of liquid cash. He could spend a nice warm winter in Mexico, swilling margaritas. Once the cops finished chasing their tails, he would return.

The only hitch was Edmund J. Finley.

DiCarlo studied the merchandise he'd stacked against the wall beside his Christmas tree. They looked like sad, neglected presents, unwrapped and unwanted.

The bookends, the parrot, the eagle, Lady Liberty, the china dog. Counting the figurine he'd already delivered, that made six out of seven. Anyone but Finley would consider that a success.

It was only one lousy painting, he thought. Christ knew he'd given it his best shot. He had a black eye, a split lip and sore kidneys. His cashmere coat was ruined.

He'd done more than his share to correct a mistake that hadn't been his in the first place. As soon as he had time, he was going to pay back Opal Johnson for that. In spades.

In the meantime, he just had to figure out the best way to approach Finley. After all, Finley was a businessman and knew one had to take losses along with profit. So he would approach Finley just that way. Businessman to businessman. It wouldn't hurt to put Finley in a cheery mood by personally presenting him with the five newly recovered items first, then elicit sympathy and admiration by detailing the specifics.

He'd explain about the cop, too. Surely a man like Finley would understand the great personal risk taken by icing a badge.

Not enough, DiCarlo admitted, and picked up his ice pack to press it against his bruised cheekbone. He crossed to his foyer mirror to examine himself. It was just as well he was too busy to celebrate New Year's Eve. He could hardly go out in a crowd of people, since his face looked as though it had gone through a meat grinder.

He was going to have to get back to the Conroy woman, and the man across the hall as well. It would take
some time. DiCarlo prodded gently beside his swollen eye, winced. He could be patient. Six months, a year. They'd have forgotten about him by then. But he wouldn't forget.

There would be no plans to kill her humanely this time. No indeed. This was one vendetta that would be executed slowly and with great pleasure.

The idea made him smile, then swear as the movement opened his split lip. DiCarlo staunched the blood with the back of his hand, turned away from the mirror. She would pay, there was no question. But his first order of business was Finley.

He knew he could run from the cops, but he wasn't certain he could escape his employer. He would use reason, practicality and flattery. And . . . DiCarlo pressed the ice bag against his mouth and smiled with his eyes only. Good faith. He would offer to put another man on the job, at his own expense.

Surely that was an offer that would appeal to Finley's business sense. And his greed.

Satisfied, DiCarlo went to the phone. The sooner he was finished in California, the sooner he could hit the beaches in Mexico.

“I want to book a flight, first class, New York to LA. First available. Not until six-fifteen?” He drummed his fingers on his desk, calculating. “Yes, yes, that will be fine. No, one way. I'll want to book another flight from LA to Cancún, on the first of January.” He opened a desk drawer, took out his passport. “Yes, I'm sure the weather will be an improvement.”

 

“I think his face was a little longer.” Dora watched the computer-generated image change on the monitor to the quick rattle of the operator's fingers on the keyboard. “Yeah, that's it. And thinner, too.” Unsure, Dora shook her head and looked over at Jed. “Did he have more eyebrows? I think I'm making him look like Al Pacino.”

“You're doing fine. Finish going through your impressions, then we'll add mine.”

“Okay.” She closed her eyes and let the dark image come back, but the quiver of panic came with it, and she opened her eyes again. “I only got a quick look. He . . .” She reached for the ice water she'd requested. “I think he had more hair than that—and it might have had some curl to it.”

“Okay.” The operator tried on a different hairstyle. “How's that?”

“It's closer. Maybe his eyes were heavier—you know, more lid.”

“Like this?”

“Yes, I think . . .” She let out a sigh. “I don't know.”

Jed moved behind her chair, laid his hands on her shoulders and automatically began to knead out the tension. “Thin out the lips and nose,” he ordered. “The eyes were deeper set. Yeah, that's it. She was right about the eyebrows, a little heavier. More. Square off the chin some.”

“How do you do that?” Dora whispered.

“I got a better look at him than you, that's all.”

No, that wasn't all, she thought. Not nearly all. He'd seen what she'd seen, but he'd absorbed and filed and retained. Now she was watching the image of her attacker taking shape on the monitor.

“Now deepen the complexion,” Jed suggested, narrowing his eyes, focusing in. “Bingo.”

“That's him.” Shaken, Dora reached up to lay a hand over Jed's. “That
is
him. That's incredible.”

Like a proud papa, Brent patted the monitor. “It's a hell of a tool. Jed had to do some fast shuffling to get it in the budget.”

Dora smiled weakly and forced herself to stare into the computerized eyes. “Better than Nintendo.”

“Give us a printout,” Brent told the operator. “We'll see if we can come up with a match.”

“I'd like a copy.” Relieved to have it behind her, Dora got to her feet. “I want to make sure Lea and Terri see it,
in case they notice him hanging around near the shop.”

“We'll get you one.” Brent nodded to the operator. “Why don't you come back to my office for a few minutes?” He took her arm, guiding her out of the conference room and down the hall. She glanced at a door, read
CAPTAIN J
.
T
.
SKIMMERHORN
on the glass.

It looked as though the department was keeping a light in the window.

She looked up at Jed. “T for testosterone?”