Liberating Lacey (5 page)

have guessed a woman could long for a man so intensely. The poets were being, well, poetic.

But what was it? Lust? A physical connection unrelated to thought or emotion? At some level she marveled at her ability to feel so passionately for a man she barely knew.

Then again, maybe that lack of connection made that passion possible. No work issues, no late meetings, no social obligations, no emotional entanglements to distract her from amazing, previously untapped capacity for pleasure Hunter drew from her body.

He kissed her as he withdrew and Lacey let her trembling legs touch the floor again.

“Bathroom?” he asked as he got to his feet.

“Through the kitchen door, next door on your left,” she said. From behind he looked merely a little rumpled. She looked at the clock and covered her mouth to stifle her shocked laugh. It was seven-thirty.

She joined him in the bathroom as he finished buttoning his shirt and tucking the tails into his khakis. “I’ll just…clean up a little,” she said.

He gave her a crisp nod. When the door closed behind him, she dampened a cloth and made herself presentable, swiping the cool, damp fabric along her neck, then between her legs. A quick glance in the mirror revealed that whatever makeup the encounter removed was more than compensated for by the flush in her cheeks, her reddened lips and the satisfied look in her eyes.

“You are a new woman, Lacey,” she said.

She opened the door and found Hunter leaning against the back of the leather sofa, her cream lace panties hanging loosely from one hand, her shoes in the other. His face utterly deadpan despite the humor dancing in his eyes, he held out her underwear. It was a bit ridiculous to step back into the bathroom to put her panties back on, so she held out her hand and kept her head high as she stepped into the skimpy bikinis.

“I locked the back door,” he said as she slid her feet into her sandals, but those were the only words he spoke until they were buckled into the black fabric seats of his car and backing out of the driveway.

“Well,” Lacey said, her voice bright in the silence. “Where are we going?”

“La Cucina on Columbus,” he said, his attention focused as he zipped through the side streets.

“I’ve never been there,” she said, her curiosity piqued. “Italian?”

“Mexican.”

Another silence descended. Succumbing to the satiated torpor humming in her veins, Lacey stared out the passenger window, a low-level hum of pleasure emanating from her skin as they drove through the thick early evening heat. A small smile tipped the corners of her mouth when she saw a new high-rise condo building going up on property for which she’d brokered the mortgage. The city’s eastern business district had fallen on hard times, but thanks to a dedicated community effort, new kinds of housing 39

Anne Calhoun

and retail opportunities were opening up, bringing young professionals downtown to work, live and play. She was a big part of that process. Seeing the plans come to fruition made her happy.

Hunter’s face was once again impassive as he navigated the one-way streets downtown, his big hands barely seeming to touch the wheel or the gearshift as he drove. He gave her a quick glance, his eyes once again invisible behind the mirrored shades. A grin lifted the corner of his mouth. She smiled back.

Oh, this was nice, no chatter, no discussing acquaintances or mutual friends and mentally wondering what they’d say about the date. No unspoken question about “will we or won’t we”. They had. They would again.

He kept to the side streets, making a sharp left hand turn to enter the restaurant’s parking lot from an alley at the rear of the building. The lot was almost empty, a few older cars with for sale signs parked facing the side street.

“You know the neighborhood,” she commented. The older sections of town, built in the twenties and thirties, were rabbit warrens of alleys and streets. Even lifelong residents got lost.

“I was on patrol here for four years before I moved to the Northern precinct,” he said as he unbuckled his seatbelt. “You learn the alleys and back streets real well when you’re losing footraces with dealers and bangers.” Far more motivating than being ten minutes late to a meeting. “Is this one of your favorite restaurants?” she asked.

“Never been, but I hear the food’s good. Authentic.” She picked up her purse and opened her own door, then smiled up at Hunter when he put his hand out to help her out of the very low-slung car. A little thrill zinged through her when he casually kept her hand in his, the gesture both sweet and protective as he led her around the corner of the building to the sidewalk.

The southeast side of the city, home to the bulk of the Hispanic population, enjoyed a thriving restaurant and nightlife traffic, but the revitalization was sketchy. Two blocks down a dozen men loitered on the sidewalk outside a strip club, while across the street in the next block people spilled down the front steps of a church. But Lacey recognized La Cucina’s sign from a glowing restaurant review and photograph in the newspaper several months ago.

“I’m excited to try this place,” she said as Hunter reached for the dulled brass handle. “The review I read was very complimentary—“ The dark wood door thudded in its frame as the deadbolt caught. Hunter tried again but the door refused to budge. A horrified look flashed across his face.

Lacey cupped her eyes and peered through the window, now noticing a layer of dust on the curtains. There were no lights on inside. She pointed to the faded closed sign half-hidden behind two dusty white curtains in the window. Hunter blew out his breath, his hands on his hips.

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She stood on tiptoe to peer over the curtains into the neighboring store that occupied space in the same building. “All the stores in this building are closed. Where are we?” she asked, searching for the street signs. “I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I think this building went on the market about a month ago. Business is booming on Columbus Street. This is a prime real estate opportunity.” Hunter stepped back and looked up and down the block. “I guess a good review doesn’t mean much anymore,” he said, running his hand over his hair. “Any ideas?” She turned to face the street, noting the five-and-dime stores, the brightly colored murals decorating the community center next to the church, and tried to think. “I’ve never eaten down here before,” she admitted.

“Not really your neighborhood,” he said, chagrin in his voice. He leaned back against La Cucina’s door, folded his arms and braced one foot against the wood paneling, then gestured to her silk skirt. “You were expecting SoMa,” he said, naming the city’s trendy shopping and dining district bounded by Sorrell and Madison, with brick streets, upscale boutiques and the city’s best local restaurants, “not Mexican on Columbus Street.”

“All I expected was to eat while getting to know you,” she said gently. “The location wasn’t important. And I’m a clotheshorse. It’s genetic and I can’t help it. If that’s a problem, then we’ll just have to eat in, naked.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he said absently, scanning the street. “Okay, your choice. We can go down to SoMa and try to get in at Libretto or Le Pain. Or we can go across the street and up a block to Juana’s.”

“Juana’s?”

“A dive where cops from the Southern go after shift.”

“Sounds great,” she said without hesitating. So far,
different
was working for her.

Besides, the chances of getting a table at eight o’clock on a Saturday night at the city’s two most popular restaurants were slim to none.

Juana’s was tiny, noisy and crowded with neighborhood residents clad in jeans and t-shirts and talking in rapid-fire Spanish. A small pack of boys fought over a toy and lurched between two Formica-topped tables filled with several generations of a family.

Behind the counter a small television broadcast a news program. Two of the cooks recognized Hunter when he walked in and shouted greetings through the window while waving metal spatulas. Hunter waved back, then cleared red plastic baskets and cups off the table in a red vinyl booth near the back, dumping the tableware into a gray tub near the door to the kitchen. Lacey slid into the seat and reached for the paper menu tucked between the napkin dispenser and the white wall.

“Don’t bother,” he said. “You get tacos at Juana’s.” She put the menu back. “Tacos it is.”

The waitress swabbed down the table, nodding while Hunter ordered two taco platters and a Coke. Lacey asked for a wine list and got a shake of the head and a nervous laugh.

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Anne Calhoun

“No liquor license,” Hunter said.

“Diet Coke,” she said. The necessities completed, she met Hunter’s gaze across the table and saw a hint of nerves there.

“So having slept with a woman doesn’t ease the first date jitters?” His shoulders relaxed as he looked at her, something at once dark and full of humor in his eyes. “Depends on the woman. Is this another first for you?”

“Besides the first time I’ve had sex in my kitchen, our first date and my first time at Juana’s? No. I’ve been on other dates since the divorce was finalized.” She unwrapped the paper napkin from around the silverware. “But it felt strange to date men my ex-husband, Davis, worked or golfed with.”

“That’s why you were in Buff,” he said. “Not too many lawyers there.”

“Or bankers, or doctors,” she said. “Davis and I began dating when we were nineteen and married at twenty-two. Neither of us liked to party. When I told you I hadn’t danced in ages, that was a half-truth. I’d never danced in a club before.”

“You didn’t go out in college?” he asked, curiosity in his voice. “I partied as much as I studied.”

“The opportunities were there, but Davis was a scholarship student and very ambitious. I’m—” She stopped as the waitress left two red plastic glasses filled with soda and ice, then back at into his eyes, unable to stop the embarrassed smile crossing her face. “After college we married immediately and I was working sixty, sometimes seventy hours a week for Western States Bank.”

He studied her. “You don’t seem like you’d have to take a job where you work that much.”

He’d been right about her attitude at Buff and he was right about whether or not she needed to work. But the pastimes chosen by most of her peers—decorating and charity fundraising—held no interest for her when compared to the thrill of the hunt and the visceral satisfaction of a long-fought, hard-won deal.

“I like to work,” she said, then reached across the table for one of his large hands, determined to change the subject. Her hands spanned an octave at the piano but seemed tiny in comparison to his long fingers and broad, callused palms. She turned one hand over so it rested palm-down in hers, then traced the assortment of fresh scabs and bruises that covered the knuckles and the back of his hand.

“I didn’t notice these earlier.”
Because thirty seconds after you walked in my door you
had your hands up my skirt.
“Is this what happens when you can’t concentrate?” His eyes met hers, completely bland. “It’s what happens when a meth addict takes off after a traffic stop.”

She cocked her head and looked at him, intrigued by the change in his demeanor.

Just like that, he’d gone from reserved but relaxed to humming with energy and about two sizes bigger than he was before. “There’s more to that story.” 42

Liberating Lacey

“I pulled him over for expired plates and saw drugs and paraphernalia in the passenger seat. He took off when I ordered him out of the car. Me and six other officers ended up searching the gully on the east side of Memorial Park in the dark. We called in the chopper to find him with FLIR, the infrared cameras. He put up a fight when we found him. The bushes weren’t real friendly, either.”

“I’d hate to see what he looks like,” she said, gently rubbing the skin around the scabs.

“Not too bad. It was Tase him or hurt him pretty bad to get him cuffed. I Tased him.

People high on meth feel no pain, don’t care if they live or die, or if you live or die.” He looked at her, his eyes gone forest green, and something very, very feminine submerged inside her surged to life. “Gonna kiss my boo-boos and make ‘em all better?”

“I’ll kiss something that will make you forget the pain,” she said. “But not your boo-boos.”

His fingers closed tight around hers, but they broke apart when the gum-smacking waitress thumped two taco platters and sodas in cans down on the table. Saliva filled Lacey’s mouth as she surveyed the assortment of hard- and soft-shell tacos.

“I’m starving,” she said as she reached for a hard-shell taco and the side of guacamole.

The food was good, filling, well seasoned and unpretentious. She sat cross legged on the booth seat and ate taco after taco, eventually disdaining the flimsy paper napkins for licking her fingers as Hunter gave her short answers to her questions about his job.

The sun set, the street lights came on, the waitress changed the television channel to a soccer game. Traffic outside picked up as teenagers began cruising and the families left to put kids to bed. Lacey drank another Diet Coke and didn’t miss how effectively and persistently Hunter deflected attention back to her.

“What exactly is a commercial mortgage broker? Is it like a real estate agent?” The question was casually framed in the context of their conversation when she brought up the available building across the street.

“I help buyers arrange financing on large-scale projects,” she said. “Basically, if you set out to buy enough land to build a strip mall or an apartment complex, you can’t just walk into your branch bank and get a loan. You need a commercial mortgage and those deals have far more negotiability than a regular mortgage.”

“So you don’t work for a real estate company.”

“I work on commission, making a percentage of the property sale price. The bigger the deal, the more I make. I started out at Western States, made some connections, learned the basics of the business, then went into business for myself when they got out of that market. No, thank you,” she said as he offered her one of the remaining tacos. “I really enjoyed the meal, though.”