Like No One Else (25 page)

By the time Paulo and Donovan left the house, the younger detective had formulated another theory. “I say they're all in it together—Colston, Kristin, and the mother-in-law. They were all betrayed by Maribel in one way or another. Therefore they all had a motive for revenge. And are you thinking what I'm thinking about the baby Maribel was carrying?”

“That it might have been Enrique Ramirez's instead of Ted Colston's?” Paulo nodded. “The thought crossed my mind.”

Donovan shook his head, muttering, “What a damned mess.”

For the first time that day, Paulo agreed with his partner.

For all the good it did either of them.

At the end of another long, frustrating day, Paulo found himself glaring at the grisly crime-scene photos on his computer monitor, his brain hurting from the effort to make sense of what he was viewing, to connect the missing pieces that eluded him.

That afternoon Maribel's body had been released to her family so they could return home to Brownsville and begin the difficult process of making funeral arrangements. The DA wanted answers, Paulo's family wanted answers, his captain was breathing down his neck, and he was no closer to knowing who had committed the heinous murder than the day he'd walked into Maribel's house.

He craved a smoke so bad he'd been tempted to bum a cigarette from one of the other officers. The Cruz case was getting under his skin in a way that only nicotine could salve.

Of course, the murder investigation wasn't the only thing getting under his skin.

A pair of dark eyes, sensual and inviting, flashed through his mind.

Paulo swore savagely under his breath, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to erase the tormenting image.

His preoccupation with Tommie Purnell had all the earmarks of a full-fledged obsession. He thought about her constantly. The more time he spent with her, the more he wanted her. And though he knew she was bad for him, he couldn't get enough of her.

So it came as no surprise to him when he found himself driving to her loft that evening after leaving the police station. He could no more stop himself from going to her than he could change his blood type.

He was relieved to see her red Mazda parked outside the small building, even as he silently marveled that a woman who looked like her didn't lead a more active social life. Not that he was complaining.

As he climbed out of his police cruiser and walked to the main door, he could hear music coming from the building. Something with a heavy, pounding rhythm. So she was definitely home.

He knocked on the door and pressed the doorbell, figuring she might have a hard time hearing him over the loud music. And her intercom system was broken, so he couldn't even buzz her.

After a full minute passed he tried the doorknob, frowning when it turned in his hand. Damn it! Didn't she know better than to leave her door unlocked with a killer on the loose?

He stepped inside, closing and locking the door behind him. The foyer was in darkness, but lights glowed at the end of the hallway and music spilled from the open doors of the dance studio. Paulo followed the pounding beat of the drums, the pulsing rhythm of the percussions.

By the time he reached the doorway, he was all set to lecture her about not locking her front door and foolishly endangering her life.

The words dried in his throat at the sight that greeted him.

Tommie was alone on the floor, dancing to a drum solo that reverberated from Paulo's ears to his toes. The haughty, austere ballet instructor he'd encountered a few days ago had been replaced by this wild, uninhibited creature twisting and contorting her body in a series of primal, undulating movements that stole his breath. He watched her, pulse pounding in his ears, heart knocking against his ribs.

She wore a black sports bra and matching spandex shorts that rode the flare of her hips and molded her firm, lushly rounded buttocks. Her stomach muscles, emphasized by a slick gleam of sweat, shimmered and contracted in a fierce, provocative tempo. Her feet were bare, her hair flying about her face in tangled disarray. The way she moved her body was unlike anything Paulo had ever seen in his life. He stared, riveted by the fluid grace of her arms, the flexing of her torso, the frenzied, undulating rhythm of her hips. She was powerful, ruthlessly seductive, primitively erotic.

He couldn't take his eyes off her.

He was mesmerized and seduced, the tribal music beating in time to the heavy throbbing in his groin. When she rolled to the floor and struck a pose with her body arched like a bow, her head flung back and her eyes closed, he lost it.

As she glided to her feet he strode toward her, impatiently peeling off his leather jacket and flinging it aside.

Tommie spun at the sound of his footsteps, her breasts bouncing softly with the movement, her eyes widening at the sight of him. With her tousled hair framing her flushed face and her brown skin glistening with perspiration, she looked like some lush, primeval creature. An ancient goddess of sex.

Her lips parted in surprise. “Paulo—”

He reached her in three long strides, crushing his mouth to hers, swallowing her startled gasp. He lifted her into his arms, and she wrapped her legs tightly around his waist. He groaned deep in his throat, cupping the ripe swell of her buttocks and grinding his aching erection against her. She moaned, sinking her fingers into his hair, twining her tongue sensually around his. Lust roared through his blood. His heart thudded in sync with the pulsing drums.

He backed her against the long, mirrored wall as their kiss grew hotter, wilder, more intense. Using the wall to brace her, he dragged the sports bra over her head, swore as he watched those voluptuous, incredible breasts spring free. He tossed the bra aside, took a moist, beaded nipple into his mouth, and sucked greedily. She sobbed with pleasure, her hands fisting in his hair.

A moment later those hands were pulling frantically at him. He heard something rip, dazedly realized it was his shirt. She clawed it off his shoulders, ran greedy hands over his heaving bare chest. He lowered her feet to the floor long enough to kneel and yank her shorts off her legs. And then she was back in his arms, her thighs locked around his hips, their mouths tearing voraciously at each other. He reached between their bodies, found her hot and drenched. Later, he would bury his face in the luscious banquet of her sex, lap it up like the starving man he was. But not now. Right now all he wanted was to be buried deep inside her. He'd been tortured long enough.

He pressed her back against the wall and reached down to fish a condom out of his wallet and unzip his trousers. He tossed the wallet aside, his hands trembling with anticipation as he quickly covered himself. Heart hammering, he deliberately rubbed the tip of his throbbing penis against the slick, swollen folds of her labia.

Tommie shuddered in response, bit his lower lip hard. “Don't you dare tease—”

He drove into her, and she let out a primal scream that ignited his blood. Their gazes locked, speechless. He began thrusting into her, driven by the sheer pleasure of her tight, wet heat stretching around him, sheathing him so perfectly it was as if their bodies had been created for each other.

The room was like a sauna, hot and steamy. Droplets of sweat drizzled from their joined bodies and splashed onto the floor. Paulo thrust hard and deep, taking her roughly and possessively. She matched him stroke for stroke, her hips pistoning furiously against his, her long nails digging into the slippery slope of his shoulders. He cupped her bouncing breasts, one in each hand, and sucked both nipples in turn, licking and caressing the plump curves.

Over the pounding drumbeat he could hear her desperate pleas and demands, mingling with his own guttural moans. He lifted his head from her breasts and fused his mouth to hers, swallowing her cries, feeding on them as he rammed in and out of her. Harder and faster as the music swelled to an aching crescendo.

She came in a violent rush, screaming his name and clawing at his back as her body convulsed in the intense grip of an orgasm. He shouted hoarsely as he began coming, spurting into the condom, milked dry by the feminine muscles clenching and pulsing around him. The pleasure of it tore through him, leaving him shattered and shaking uncontrollably as he and Tommie clutched each other, gasping for air.

Somehow he managed to hold on to her as they slid to the floor in a boneless heap. For several minutes neither could move or speak. They lay limply together on the smooth hardwood floor, Tommie gloriously naked, Paulo with his trousers bunched around his ankles. Dimly he realized that the music had stopped playing. Their ragged, panting breaths were amplified in the sudden silence of the room.

After another moment Paulo groaned, the sound of an unconscious man struggling toward awareness. Tommie laughed, low and husky, and nestled against him.

As his lazy gaze roamed the length of her body, he noticed that she had a pretty little mole on the curve of her hip. Before the night was over, he intended to learn and explore every exquisite inch of her.

“Well,” she murmured. “That was a first.”

“What?”

“I've never done it in a dance studio before.”

Paulo chuckled. “Neither have I.”

She propped herself onto one elbow, brushing his sweat-dampened hair off his forehead as she smiled down at him. “So you
haven't
experienced every delight known to man.”

He shook his head slowly. “After tonight, I realize I hadn't even scratched the surface.”

She blushed demurely, her smile softening with pleasure. “It
was
pretty incredible.”

“I told you it would be,” he murmured, stroking her smooth back. Her body was a banquet, a feast for the eyes. Sleek and sublimely curvy with those generous breasts and endless legs. Just like that, he wanted her again.

Her gaze drifted downward to where his penis lay against his belly, stiff and engorged. She licked her lips, her eyes darkening with hunger. Heat flared inside him, like a flame ignited by gasoline.

He was already reaching for her as she sat up and straddled him. Her hot, womanly scent wafted up to his nostrils, making him salivate. She braced her hands on either side of his head and leaned down, the ends of her hair tickling his chest as she kissed him, slow and sensual.

“We should probably go upstairs,” she whispered against his mouth. “I have a bed, you know.”

Paulo lifted her by the waist, felt her sharp intake of breath as he impaled her. “Maybe next time.”

Sometime after midnight, Tommie found herself lying facedown and sideways across her bed, her bones limp as water, her body spent and satiated. The sheets were hot and tangled, damp and musky with the scent of sex. In the warm glow of the bedside lamp she could see Paulo lying on his back, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

After leaving the studio they'd headed for the loft, making it halfway up the stairs before a fresh wave of passion overtook them. One moment they were kissing feverishly; the next moment Paulo had Tommie pinned against the wall and clinging to him for dear life as he pounded furiously into her. He didn't stop until she was gasping and crying, her throat raw from screaming, every nerve in her body strained to fever pitch. They made love so many times she lost count of the number of orgasms he brought her to, lost track of everything but the mind-blowing pleasure he was giving her.

“I can't move,” she croaked now, blowing her hair out of her eyes.

Paulo chuckled, a low, husky rumble. “I'm not even going to try.”

She grinned weakly. “I suppose this
has
been a bit much for you, being an old guy and all.”

He reached out, slapping her on the butt.

She jumped, laughing. “Ouch! I thought you weren't going to move!”

“I made an exception. Come here.” He dragged her into his arms, kissed her forehead as she snuggled against him and tucked her head beneath his chin.

Tommie couldn't remember the last time, if ever, she'd felt so warm and contented. As experienced as she was—and there was no use denying it—no man had ever made love to her as passionately and intensely as Paulo had. And for as long as she lived, she would never forget the fierce, determined expression on his face as he'd strode toward her at the end of her dance. She shivered just thinking about it.

“Cold?” Paulo murmured.

She shook her head, smiling as she ran her hand over the hard, sculpted planes of his chest, enjoying the flex and play of his muscles. “I was just wondering what about my dancing brought out the animal in you tonight.”

He chuckled low and deep in his throat, the vibration of it making her belly quiver. “You don't have to be dancing to do that to me. But yeah, that dance was something else. You were hypnotizing, erotic as hell.”

Tommie warmed with pleasure at his husky words. “I'm glad you enjoyed it. It was inspired by a West African mating dance.”

He laughed. “No wonder. And now you know it works.”

“Oh yeah. Beyond my wildest dreams.” She smiled against his chest, sighed languorously. “We should go salsa dancing sometime.”

“What makes you think I know how to salsa?” he challenged. “Because I'm Hispanic?”

“No,” she laughed protestingly, slapping his muscled shoulder. “It was just a suggestion.”

“Uh-huh. Likely story.”

“It's the truth. Anyway, do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Know how to salsa?”

He hesitated for so long she thought he wouldn't answer her. Curious, she lifted her head to search his face in the soft lamplight. “Well?”

His lips quirked. “Yes,” he admitted sheepishly.

“I knew it!” she said with a triumphant laugh.

He chuckled. “My aunt taught me when I was a kid. I had no choice.”

Tommie grinned, shaking her head at him. “You've got some nerve, Paulo Sanchez, trying to make me feel guilty for stereotyping you,” she chided, poking him playfully in the ribs. “Just for that, you're going salsa dancing with me. I want to see what kind of moves you've got.”

He flashed a wicked pirate's grin. “I thought I just showed you what kind of moves I've got.”

Indeed he had, she mused. Against the wall. On the floor. In the stairwell with the flickering lights. All over the bed. “I'm talking about on the
dance
floor,” she clarified.

Paulo arched a brow. “Didn't we start off on the dance floor?”

A helpless laugh escaped. “You know very well what I mean.” Suddenly embarrassed, Tommie buried her hot face against his chest and groaned. “God, I'll never look at my studio the same way again. Every time I step through the doors, I'll remember the things we did in there.”

Paulo chuckled, lazily caressing the swell of her backside. “You make that sound like a bad thing,” he drawled.

Tommie lifted her head to glare reproachfully at him. “Considering that I'm running a dance school, and a majority of my students are minors, you can see how me fantasizing about sex during class might not be so good for business.”

Again he flashed that devilish, irreverent grin. “I still don't see what the problem is.”

“Oh, you don't, do you?” Slowly, deliberately, Tommie slid down his body and insinuated herself between his strong, muscular thighs. Holding his dark gaze, she ran her fingers through the silky black hair that arrowed down to where his thick penis lay against his abdomen, swelling and stiffening before her very eyes.

“Mmmm,” she purred in throaty appreciation. “Maybe I should come to
your
job and seduce you, Detective. See how
you'd
like having flashbacks of me doing this—” She flicked her tongue out, snakelike, catching a pearly drop of precome from the tip of his shaft.

Paulo jerked, swearing hoarsely under his breath.

“Or this—” She wrapped her fingers around him, dragging a groan of pleasure out of him. His penis was hot and hard, the soft skin gliding beneath her hand as smooth as marble. She gave him a bold, stroking caress. Long, firm pulls milking him all the way to the tip.

He sucked in a harsh breath, closing his eyes as if he were in agony.
“Dios mio.”

“Or how about this—” She took him deep into her mouth, reveling in the violent tremor that shook his body. She licked around and over the head of his shaft, then up and down the throbbing length until it was slippery from her saliva and his own juice. With one hand she grasped the thick base, while with the other she cupped his engorged testicles and massaged them slowly and sensually. She could feel the tension building inside him, like a deadly storm gathering force.

Fighting her own burgeoning arousal, she purred seductively, “How would you like
this
going through your mind every time you're interrogating a suspect or—”

With a guttural oath Paulo reared up, rolling her over and pinning her beneath him. Tommie's triumphant laughter dissolved into a shuddering sob as he thrust into her, filling her with one long, brutally erotic stroke.

Gazing into his dark, smoldering eyes, she wrapped her legs around his hips and grabbed his buttocks, pulling him into her body as far as she could take him. He lowered his head, sucked a taut, swollen nipple into his mouth. She cried out, jolts of sensation rushing to her loins. Her hips bucked beneath him as he pumped harder, deeper, faster, driving her toward another soul-shattering, mind-blowing orgasm.

They rocked together, moaning and shouting encouragements to each other with each deep, penetrating thrust. Tommie pulled his hair, felt tears burning the backs of her eyelids. And when the end came for both of them in an explosive climax that left them gasping and trembling, Paulo seized her mouth in a hot, ravenous kiss and whispered huskily, “Turnabout is fair play.”

 

Friday, November 13

The call came at 5:00 a.m.

Paulo, in a deep, sated slumber, almost didn't hear it. When the ringing phone finally registered, he opened a bleary eye, groaned, and reluctantly rolled over, away from the silky warmth of Tommie's naked body. Reaching across the bedside table, he snatched up his cell phone, half wondering at what point during the night he'd had the foresight to place it within easy reach. “Sanchez,” he mumbled, his voice a low, nearly unintelligible growl.

“We've got another body.” It was Donovan, sounding grim.

Paulo sat upright in bed, rubbing his eyes. “What?”

“Same MO as the Cruz homicide. Only this time the victim is a stripper.”

“Shit,” Paulo muttered, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and going in search of his discarded shirt and trousers.

Groaning softly, Tommie rolled over and switched on the bedside lamp. Pushing her dark hair out of her face, she squinted groggily at him.
What's going on
? she mouthed.

Paulo held up one finger, signaling that he'd respond to her in a minute.

Donovan continued. “The officer who responded said she'd been stabbed multiple times in the throat and chest. And there was a word written in blood on the bedroom wall.
Whore
.”

A dagger of foreboding sliced through Paulo's heart. “Whore?”

“That's what the officer told me. Maybe because the vic was a stripper?”

“Shit,” Paulo muttered again. He found his dark briefs, tugged them on before continuing the search for his shirt and pants, wondering why the hell they weren't in the vicinity of his underwear. Tommie pointed, leading him in the right direction.
Your shirt's still in the studio
, she mouthed the reminder to him.

Right. The shirt that she'd torn last night.

“We'd better go check out the scene,” Donovan was saying.

Paulo dragged on his trousers. “I'll meet you there.”

“You sure? I can be at your place in five minutes.”

“I'm not home.”

“Ohhh.” A sly, knowing grin crept into the younger detective's voice. “Did you and the lovely Miss Purnell kiss and make up, by any chance?”

“None of your damned business. What's the address?”

After Donovan provided the location of the crime scene, Paulo hung up and shoved the phone into his back pocket.

“What happened?” Tommie had slipped out of bed and donned a black silk robe that caught her at midthigh. She looked tousled, sleepy, and sexy as hell. Paulo wished he had time for a quickie, though he knew that wouldn't be nearly enough to satisfy his appetite.

Dragging his gaze away from the enticing vision she made, he said brusquely, “There's been another murder.”

“By the same person who killed Maribel Cruz?” Tommie asked faintly.

Paulo frowned. “We don't know yet,” he muttered, striding to the dresser and grabbing his badge, wallet, weapon, and keys.

Tommie followed him down the hallway and past the living room, where the first light of dawn was streaking the sky beyond the windows. She walked him downstairs to the studio, watched from the doorway as he shoved his arms into his torn shirt and shrugged into his jacket, which had also been left behind in his haste to get her into bed.

At the main door, he cupped her face in his hands and pressed a hard kiss to her mouth. “Go back to bed. I'll call you later.”

“Okay.” She bit her lip almost shyly. “Dinner at nine?”

Paulo hesitated, then smiled softly. “Sounds good. I'll bring something this time.”

She grinned. “Sounds good.”

Unable to resist, he kissed her again before stepping out into the chilly November morning. As he strode down the sidewalk to his cruiser, he tossed over his shoulder, “Lock the damned door this time. It's not safe to be leaving it unlocked with a psycho on the loose.”

“What're you talking about?” Tommie called after him.

Her words stopped him cold in his tracks. He turned around, staring at her. “Yesterday when I arrived, the main door was unlocked. How do you think I got inside?”

“I don't know.”

He took a step toward her. “What do you mean you don't know?”

“I locked the door last night. I always do.” She frowned, folding her arms across her chest in an almost protective gesture. “Before we got, ah, sidetracked last night, I was going to ask you how you got into the building.”

Paulo frowned, the muscles in the back of his neck tightening. “Are you sure you didn't forget to lock it?”

“Positive. I'm very mindful of that, living out here”—she gestured to encompass her remote surroundings—“all by myself. That's why I was so freaked out about finding the door to my loft unlocked on Tuesday night.”

“Did you ask Mrs. Calhoun about that?”

“Yes. She's pretty sure she remembered to lock it. And I believe her. She's not forgetful like that. In fact, she's one of the sharpest people I know.”

Paulo didn't like the dark suspicion that was taking root in his mind. Haunting images from the nightmare he'd had about Tommie—twice now—had nagged at his conscience all week. Two nights ago he'd pulled a gun on her, nearly mistaking her for the faceless menace in his dream who had erupted from the dark forest wielding a bloody knife. Every time Paulo remembered the look of horror on Tommie's face, the terror in her eyes as she'd stared at the gun in his hand, he got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. And no matter how many times he told himself he wouldn't—
couldn't
—have shot her, nothing eased the guilt he felt.