Like No One Else (31 page)

“Because it would've been rude not to. Besides, every ballerina loves to receive bouquets after a performance,” she grumbled sheepishly. “It's in our DNA.”

“Ah.” Paulo nodded, lips quirking. “So other than accepting his flowers, have you ever given Richard any reason to think he might have a chance with you? Have you ever gone out with him?”

“No way. And he's never asked, thank God.”

“So his only crime is giving you expensive flowers, staring at you, and possibly being an asshole?”

Tommie glared at him. “Are you making fun of me, Detective?”

“Absolutely not,” he said with a straight face. When her eyes narrowed, he added, “Richard Houghton is going on my list of people to check out.”

“Fine. But just for the record, I don't think he's our guy. An asshole, maybe. But not a killer.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Paulo said dryly. “Do you have any enemies?”

She snorted. “Doesn't everyone?”

“Some more than others. What about you?”

She shrugged. “I've always had people who didn't like me. Sometimes it was justified, other times not.” She hesitated, then added, “I don't make friends very easily.” The minute the words were out of her mouth, she was embarrassed.

Paulo said quietly, “That's not the impression I get from watching you and Zhane together. You two seem like you've known each other a lot longer than seven months. And you told me before that you had a lot of friends back in New York.”

“I did. But they were rare, a special breed of people. They didn't judge me.” She shook her head, feeling like she was digging herself deeper into a hole the more she talked. The more she revealed. “It's hard to explain.”

“I think I understand,” Paulo murmured.

Tommie met his gaze. And, somehow, she knew he did understand. And that scared the living daylight out of her.

Glancing away, she cleared her throat. “You asked me about enemies. I wasn't very popular with the other dancers in my company. I'm sure more than a few of them were happy to see me go. But I certainly wouldn't suspect any of them of being a ruthless killer. Ruthlessly competitive, yes. But not ruthlessly homicidal.”

“What about ex-lovers?” Paulo prodded. “You said an old boyfriend stopped by unexpectedly yesterday.”

Tommie nodded tightly, anger flaring in her chest at the reminder of Roland Jackson's visit.

“You said it threw you off for the rest of the day. Why?”

She shook her head slowly. “If it's all the same to you, Paulo, I'd rather not discuss it.”

He stared at her for a long, tense moment, then nodded wordlessly.

Rising from the floor, Tommie grabbed her empty glass from the table and headed toward the kitchen. “I need more wine. Want some?”

“No, thanks.” He sounded surly.

Was he jealous of Roland? Tommie wondered. Did he think she and Roland were getting back together? If only he knew!

“What was the name of the attorney you reported to at Thorne and Associates?” Paulo asked her.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, frowning. “You mean the one who sexually harassed me?”

“Yeah.”

“His name was Harold Van Gundy. Why? Is he going on your list, too?”

“Of course. He has motive for wanting to hurt you—you got him fired.”

“He got himself fired,” Tommie muttered, opening the refrigerator. As she poured wine into her glass, she was struck by a chilling new thought.

Leaving her drink on the counter, she walked to the doorway and stared across the living room at Paulo, who was still sitting and brooding by the fire.

He glanced up at her, frowned at the troubled look on her face. “What is it?”

“I just thought of something. We've been spending all this time trying to figure out if the killer is someone I know. But I'm not the only one who came into contact with both of the victims. You did, too.” She paused. “So what if the killer is actually someone
you
know?”

“The thought crossed my mind,” Paulo said in a low, flat voice.

Tommie nodded. “Of course. You're the detective here, not me.”

He held her gaze another moment, then rose to his feet and walked over to the sofa. He sat down heavily, closing his eyes as he shoved stiff fingers through his black hair. He looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Tommie joined him a moment later, silently passing him a glass of wine.

He arched a brow at her. “I thought I said I didn't want any more.”

“What you want and what you need are two different things.”

“True enough.” He raised the glass to his lips and took a long drink.

Setting her own wineglass on the table, Tommie said, “Now it's my turn to interrogate you.”

Paulo let out a short, humorless laugh. “It doesn't work that way.”

“Why not? Because you have the badge and the gun?”

“Basically.”

“I don't think so.”

“Too bad.”

“Look, two women that we both knew or encountered were brutally murdered this week. You said yourself that you don't believe in coincidence. Neither do I. So like it or not, Paulo, we're in this together.”

He shook his head, bristling with impatience. “Okay. Whatever.” He downed the rest of his wine, set his glass down with a thud.

Undaunted, Tommie asked, “Do you have any enemies?”

“I'm a cop,” he said, as if the answer should be obvious.

“Right. You've put away a lot of dangerous criminals who'd like nothing more than to get even with you.”

“Your powers of observation are amazing,” Paulo said sarcastically.

Ignoring the barb, Tommie forged ahead. “What about people in your personal life? Maybe you've unknowingly gotten on the wrong person's bad side and—”

“Tell you what,” Paulo cut her off, coldly mocking. “Why don't you just leave the police work to the paid professionals?”

Her temper flared. “Damn it, Paulo, I'm trying to help here! Why are you shutting me out?”

“I'm not shut—”

“Yes, you are!”

“Yeah? Well, that communication thing works both ways!” he fired back.

Tommie stared at him, comprehension dawning. “Oh, I get it. You're throwing a tantrum because I didn't want to talk about my old boyfriend.”

Paulo scowled. “I'm not throwing a damned tantrum. I'm trying to get to the bottom of who's behind these murders. If you really wanted to help as much as you claim you do, then you wouldn't refuse to answer any of my damned questions.”

Fury swelled in Tommie's chest. “You want to know about my old boyfriend? Fine! I'll tell you! Roland Jackson is the son of a bitch responsible for getting me kicked out of the Blane Bailey Dance Company. That's right.” She sneered at the surprised look that crossed Paulo's face. “I didn't walk away of my own accord. I was given the boot. Why? Because my malicious ex-boyfriend sent an embarrassing videotape of me to the artistic director and threatened to circulate it to the media and everyone in the theater and dance community.”

Paulo stared at her. “What was on the videotape?”

“Me,” Tommie spat furiously. “Having sex with Roland and his best friend.”

She watched Paulo's face, waiting to see contempt, anger, disgust, disappointment—all the emotions she knew he must be feeling.

But his expression remained neutral. He regarded her calmly, silently, waiting for her to continue.

So she did. “The Blane Bailey Dance Company has a proud, rich tradition of performance excellence and achievement, of being a cultural icon and ambassador to the world. The artistic director didn't want to risk tarnishing the company's reputation with a tawdry sex scandal, so he had no choice but to let me go.” She shook her head, her mouth twisting bitterly at the painful memory. “He wasn't too happy about it. He said he'd always hoped to have me dancing for him until I was too old and decrepit to lift a toe. But his hands were tied. He had to take Roland at his word that he'd make good on his threat to distribute the videotape. And that's why I didn't even bother auditioning for another dance company. I didn't know what Roland was capable of, didn't want to take any chances.”

“So you left New York and came here,” Paulo murmured.

Tommie nodded, her throat raw from the effort of holding back tears. “I couldn't return to San Antonio. I was too humiliated. When I left home four years ago, I felt like a failure. But at least there was hope, a light at the end of the tunnel if I could just will myself to keep moving toward it. But to leave home
feeling
like a failure was one thing. To come back
as
a failure was more than I could handle.”

“You're not a failure,” Paulo said gently. “You went to New York and did what you set out to do. You joined an elite dance company, traveled around the country, and saw the world. How many people can say that?”

“Don't,” Tommie said, holding up a hand, steeling herself against the power of his kind words, his compassion. “I don't want or deserve your pity. I made my own bed, so to speak, when I put myself in that compromising situation with Roland. No one held a gun to my head. No one's ever made me do what I don't want to.”

“Tell me what happened, Tommie.”

She shook her head. “I don't—”

“Tell me.” The steely glint in his eyes, and the tone of his voice, let her know it was no longer a request.

Closing her eyes, she rested her head against the back of the sofa and drew a deep, fortifying breath, gathering courage to tell him things she'd never shared with anyone else. “It happened four years ago,” she began in a low monotone. “A few months before I left home for New York. I was depressed at the time. About everything, really. My dead-end job as a secretary, my mounting credit card debt, my strained relationship with my father, who rightly thought I lacked direction and focus. Even my relationship with Frankie depressed me. I was insanely jealous of her. Jealous of her genius IQ jealous of her great career, jealous of her wonderful relationship with our father.

“The one constant in my life, the one thing I could rely on, was my boyfriend, Roland, who I'd been dating for two years. He was a UPS driver who'd flirted shamelessly with me every time he brought a delivery to the law firm, until one day I agreed to go out with him. He wasn't my ideal guy. He lacked ambition, didn't seem terribly bright, and he still lived at home with his mother. But we had fun together, and at the time I believed he genuinely cared about me. He treated me well and seemed to accept me for who I am. And unlike my father, Roland supported my dream of becoming a dancer. Frankie did, too, but at the time I was so consumed by jealousy and bitterness that I questioned every kind word she ever spoke to me.” Tommie shook her head, feeling the familiar pang of guilt over the way she'd treated her sister, one of many mistakes from her past she wished she could undo.

“Anyway,” she continued after a moment, “one night after work I went over to Roland's house. I was upset and feeling sorry for myself because I'd auditioned for a local production, and had just found out that I didn't make the final cut. I wanted to get drunk, smashed out of my mind. Whatever it took to make me forget my pain, my anger, my disappointment with life. Roland was only too willing to oblige me. His mother was out of town, so we had the place to ourselves. He made me a margarita, just the way I liked it. One turned into two, then three, and before I knew it I'd drunk every last drop in the blender and was asking for more. I'd always been able to hold my liquor, so I thought I'd be able to handle whatever else Roland gave me. He handed me the Courvoisier he'd been nursing. After taking a few sips, I started feeling a little fuzzy, disoriented. So out of it that I didn't even realize when Roland's best friend, Simeon, came over. I'd always thought Simeon was kinda cute and smart, so I started flirting with him. Not enough to make Roland mad, but enough to make myself feel better. See,” she said, her lips twisting with bitter irony, “one thing I've always known I could count on is my looks. When all else fails, I've always been able to look in the mirror and be proud of what I saw on the outside, even if I hated what was on the inside.”

“Baby—”

“I'm not finished,” she said sharply, lifting her head from the sofa and glaring at him. “You wanted to hear what happened that night, and now I'm telling you.”

Paulo clenched his jaw, but said nothing more.

“It was late. I had to get up early for work, but I knew I was in no condition to drive myself home. Roland put on some music, and we started dancing. All three of us. And then Roland started kissing me, fondling me, and I was too drunk to care that Simeon was watching. And then the next thing I knew, he and I were dancing together while Roland watched. When Simeon kissed me, I jumped back in shock. I couldn't believe he'd had the nerve to kiss me in front of Roland. But Roland didn't seem to mind.
That
pissed me off, so I told him I was ready to leave. I asked him to drive me home since he hadn't had as much to drink. He said he'd take me home after I calmed down, and he made Simeon apologize for kissing me. I should have called the cab my damned self. But I didn't. I sat back down, let Roland pour me another drink, and listened to some more music.” She closed her eyes, drew a shuddering breath before whispering, “The last thing I remember about that night was Roland removing my shirt, looking into my eyes, and telling me he was going to make me feel better.”

“But he didn't.” Paulo's tone was hard, flat.

Slowly Tommie shook her head. “I tried, but for the life of me I couldn't remember what had happened that night. And whenever I asked Roland about it, he just told me that we'd had a good time together, that he'd done what was necessary to take my mind off my problems. He even assured me that Simeon had gone home before he and I made love. I didn't find out the truth until four years later when I saw the videotape. My director didn't want to give it to me. He could tell by the horrified look on my face that I hadn't known a thing about it. But I insisted that he let me have it. And then I went home and forced myself to watch it, to sit through every lurid, degrading minute of it. When it was over, I screamed at the top of my lungs, railed at the injustice of what had been done to me. And then I burned the videotape and vowed that nothing like that would ever,
ever
happen to me again.”

When she'd finished speaking, a heavy silence fell over the room. Paulo didn't say a word, and Tommie didn't look at him, afraid to let him see the shame and humiliation she felt, afraid of what she might see reflected on
his
face. Mrs. Calhoun had not judged or rejected her, but even if she had, Tommie, though hurt, could have handled it.

She couldn't handle being judged or rejected by Paulo.

It would kill her.

But after several long, agonizing moments of silence, she couldn't take the suspense anymore. She had to know, one way or another.

When she hazarded a glance at Paulo, she nearly recoiled from the leashed fury blazing in his eyes, turning them black, hardening his features. But underneath the fury was another emotion she hadn't expected: tenderness. Raw, naked tenderness.

Oh God
, she thought as hot tears rushed to her eyes. She didn't want his tenderness. Anything else she could have fought off. But God help her, she had no defense against tenderness. She couldn't defend against something she'd spent all her life seeking and craving.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head at him. “I can't—”

Paulo pulled her close in a fierce, protective grip. With a strangled sob Tommie dissolved in his arms, burying her face in his neck and surrendering to the anguished tears she'd never allowed herself before. She wept with anger at the cruel violation she'd suffered, wept with frustration at her own stupidity and helplessness, and wept with sorrow for everything she had lost and could never regain. And through it all Paulo held her tightly, brushing his lips across her forehead, whispering tender endearments.

Even after she'd stopped crying, and lay still against him, he wouldn't let her go. Thankfully, she didn't want him to.

Long minutes passed before she could find the strength to speak again. “I've never told anyone else,” she confided in a low, husky whisper.

“Thank you for telling me,” Paulo murmured, gently stroking her hair.

She smiled against his chest, feeling his strong, steady heartbeat. “You didn't give me much of a choice.”

“I'm sorry for pushing you,” he said humbly. “If I'd known how painful—”

She shook her head, forestalling the rest of his apology. “It's okay. Really. I'm glad you know. I don't think I like having secrets between us.”

He kissed the top of her head, murmured something soft and endearing in Spanish.

Tommie closed her eyes, felt her heart expand in her chest. She'd never felt more cherished, more protected in all her life. “Mrs. Calhoun knows, too,” she said softly. “She overheard me and Roland arguing when he showed up here yesterday morning.”