Like No One Else (32 page)

“What the hell did he want?” Paulo said in a low, controlled voice. As if he were trying very hard not to upset her again.

“He claims he wanted to apologize,” Tommie said sarcastically. “He wanted me to know he was a changed man. He'd found God, joined a church. Became a deacon.”

Paulo muttered a vicious oath under his breath that made her smile, even as she said, “It's not for me to judge whether he's truly had a change of heart. That's between him and God, and I've always believed that everyone deserves a second chance. But the sight of him standing there, with that hangdog look on his face, made me see red. Just thinking about it makes my blood boil. If Mrs. Calhoun hadn't intervened when she did, I think I might have killed him!”

“You would have been justified,” Paulo growled.

That startled a laugh out of Tommie. “Thanks. That really means a lot to me, coming from a homicide detective. I guess you could have testified in my defense at the murder trial,” she said wryly.

“And speaking of murders,” Paulo muttered, “I don't like the fact that he just showed up one day out of the clear blue. How long has he been living in Houston?”

“I don't know. Mrs. Calhoun says he joined her church five months ago. But I know he was still living in San Antonio when he sent the videotape. I saw the postmarked envelope and called his mother's house when I couldn't remember his old cell phone number. She didn't say he no longer lived with her or had moved to Houston, she just told me he wasn't home. So he can't have been living here for very long.”

“It wouldn't surprise me one damned bit to find out he followed you here,” Paulo said through gritted teeth.

“The thought crossed my mind,” Tommie admitted. “After his mother gave me his new cell phone number, I left him several scathing messages. But he never returned any of my calls.”

“Fucking coward,” Paulo snarled.

Tommie smiled. “I believe that was just one of the things I called him, among others. Anyway, shortly after I moved here, the
Houston Chronicle
did a feature story on me to help me drum up business for my studio. It's possible that Roland read the article online or heard about me moving to Houston through the grapevine.” She frowned. “But why would he follow me here? He had to know I'd want absolutely nothing to do with him.”

“Since when has that ever mattered to a stalker?”

Her frown deepened. “Good point.”

“I think I'll pay Mr. Jackson a visit tomorrow, ask him a few questions.”

Tommie wasn't fooled by his deceptively mild tone. She lifted her head from his chest, searched his impassive face. “Please don't do anything stupid,” she warned.

“Like what?”

“Paulo.”

“Relax. I'm just going to ask him a few routine questions, see if he has an alibi for the dates and times of the murders.”

Tommie studied him a moment longer, eyes narrowed. Satisfied that he was telling the truth, she resettled her head on his chest and nestled against him. “As much as I loathe and despise Roland, I just can't imagine him being a murderer. I dated him for two years. Isn't that something I would have picked up on?”

“Not necessarily,” Paulo murmured, stroking her hair. “The most ruthless serial killers in history mastered the art of hiding in plain sight and disguising their true selves from the people closest to them. And with all due respect,
querida
, you never would have imagined Roland was capable of hurting and betraying you, but he did, didn't he?”

Tommie nodded, closing her eyes against a fresh wave of anger and pain.

In a very gentle voice, Paulo asked, “Have you considered the possibility that you were drugged that night?”

A cold fist clamped around Tommie's stomach. “Are you asking me if I think Roland slipped a roofie into my drink?”

Paulo nodded. “It would explain the memory loss you experienced.”

She swallowed. “I wondered about that. But I was also very drunk that night.”

“Have you ever gotten so drunk that you couldn't remember a thing the next day?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “No.”

“I didn't think so.” He picked up her hand and threaded his fingers through hers, soothing her even as he gently navigated her through painful, turbulent waters. She silently marveled at it, his ability to be a concerned, protective lover and a justice-seeking cop at the same time.

“Did you ever think about pressing charges?” he asked.

“Yes,” Tommie murmured. “But then I thought about how difficult it would be to prove my case. Four years had passed. Even if Roland did slip a roofie into my drink, it's not as if my blood could be tested for the drug years after the fact. The only other evidence was the videotape, which I'd already burned. You can best believe Roland would have destroyed any copies he made. And even if he didn't, I'm not so sure a jury would have convicted him and Simeon based on the video alone. I looked out of it, definitely, but I'm sure any capable lawyer could have convinced a jury that I was a willing participant. A little drunk, but willing.” She drew a deep breath that burned in her lungs. “It would have come down to my word against theirs, and quite honestly I don't know if my credibility would have withstood a defense attorney dredging up my sexual history and the fact that I'd been a stripper.”

“But you started working at the Sirens and Spurs
after
that night, not before,” Paulo pointed out.

“I don't think that would have mattered,” Tommie said in bitter resignation. “You and I both know they would have found a way to use it against me. Remember, we're talking about a trial that would have occurred four years after the fact. They would have cited my employment as a stripper as yet another example of my sexual promiscuity and voyeuristic tendencies. They would have claimed that I enjoyed being videotaped that night, that I secretly fantasized about having threesomes while I was performing onstage and taking my clothes off for strange men.” She shuddered at the thought of being dismantled on the witness stand, of being forced to relive the entire humiliating, traumatic incident. “I couldn't put myself or my family through that. I just couldn't.”

Paulo angled his head to stare into her face. “And you don't think there's a correlation between what happened that night and you getting a job at the strip club shortly afterward?”

“No. I don't. I didn't remember what happened that night.”

“Maybe not,” Paulo countered stubbornly, “but deep in your subconscious you must have sensed that something was wrong, otherwise you wouldn't have kept asking Roland about it.”

“Maybe you're right,” she conceded, holding his intent gaze. “But that's not the reason I started working at the strip club. I told you my reason. I was hoping to get discovered. It was an immature, shallow, calculated decision on my part, but that's all there was to it.”
I'm sorry
, she almost added, because she sensed that he wanted to believe what he was telling her. But she couldn't lie to him, or to herself.

She reached up, gently touching his face. “I know you think I was a victim—”

“You were, damn it,” Paulo growled.

His fierce protectiveness made her heart ache. If she hadn't already cried her tear ducts dry, she might have wept again.

“Listen to me,” she murmured, cupping his face in both hands as she gazed into his dark, troubled eyes. “Are you listening?”

He hesitated, a muscle clenching in his rigid jaw.

“Paulo?”

He gave a short nod.

“I was victimized, but I'm not a victim. No, hear me out,” Tommie said when he opened his mouth to protest. “Roland and Simeon violated me that night. There's no getting around that. They took advantage of me in a way that I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy. But as horrible as the experience was, I'm relieved that I don't remember what actually happened. Maybe Roland did me a favor by drugging me that night. Watching the videotape was traumatic enough. I can't even imagine how much worse it would have been if they'd forced themselves upon me and I had to relive that every time I closed my eyes and went to sleep, every time I looked in the mirror, every time I even
thought
about being intimate with another man. At the Sirens and Spurs I worked alongside women who had been molested and raped, and I can tell you right now I didn't envy their ability to recall, in sickening detail, what their attacker had done to them. I pitied them. My heart broke for them.

“Seven months ago, when I watched Roland's videotape and saw what had been done to me, I thought of those girls at the strip club, and I realized, even then, how lucky I was. Because I had four years of blissful ignorance. I'm not saying that I don't have flashbacks to that night, that disturbing images from the video don't pop into my mind when I least expect it. It happens. But I'm not controlled by those memories, and I thank God for that.”

She smiled softly, combing her fingers through the thick, silky brush of Paulo's hair. “I've always had a healthy sexual appetite, and I make no apologies for that. Part of the reason I enjoy dancing so much is the sense of liberation it gives me. The permission to be a passionate, powerful, sensual being. I love our lovemaking, Paulo. I wanted you the moment I met you at the wedding rehearsal dinner four years ago, and that wanting has only gotten stronger over time. Even tonight, sitting here with you, I've found myself thinking of how soon I can get you into my bed. Now that I've told you about my past, I hope you're not going to run for the hills or—God forbid—start handling me with kid gloves. That's the last thing I want. In case you didn't hear me the first time, let me repeat myself. I
love
our lovemaking. They didn't take that away from me. I hope you won't, either.”

Paulo said nothing as she rose from the sofa, gathered their wineglasses, and walked to the kitchen, where she set his empty glass on the counter. She carried her own untouched drink into the bedroom and placed it on the bedside table, then proceeded to undress and take her nightly shower. She took longer than usual, hoping Paulo would join her. But as the minutes wore on and he didn't appear, her hope dwindled. Fear and a growing sense of desperation began to overtake her.

By the time she climbed into bed, alone, she was downright dejected. It was clear that Paulo would not be coming to her. He'd decided that she was damaged goods, and his conscience simply wouldn't allow him to continue sleeping with her when he knew they could have no future together.

So much for seeing where
that
road is going to lead us
, Tommie thought bitterly, blinking back tears as she remembered his earlier words to her. She gulped down her glass of wine, hoping it would dull the sharp edges of her pain and help her fall asleep faster.

When she finally heard Paulo coming down the hallway, she assumed he was going to ask her where she kept the spare blankets so he could camp out on the sofa.

As he stepped through the doorway, she barely lifted her head from her pillow, saying tonelessly, “They're in the hall closet.”

“That's nice,” Paulo muttered, peeling off his shirt, kicking off his jeans, and striding purposefully toward the bed, powerful and gloriously naked, “but you already cost me one sleepless night on a damned sofa. No way in hell am I going through that again.”

Tommie nearly wept with joyous relief as he pulled back the covers and slid into bed with her, seizing her mouth in a fierce, plundering kiss that stole her breath. His hot, sweet tongue delved inside her mouth while his callused hands gripped the hem of her nightshirt, yanked it up over her head, and flung it aside. She trembled with pleasure as he pressed her breasts together and licked the deep valley between them, his breath a warm, silky caress against her skin.

She clutched his hair and moaned as he slid down the length of her body. He drew her legs up and rubbed his stubble-roughened cheek against the smooth, sensitized flesh of her inner thighs, making her shiver.

Inhaling her scent into his lungs, he groaned thickly. “God, you smell so good.”

Tommie let out a shocked cry of pleasure as he drew the tender bud of her clitoris into his mouth. She writhed under the slow, erotic lash of his tongue, her hips bucking in his strong grip. He held her ruthlessly still, licking and lapping at her, his tongue swirling in sensual circles against her swollen labia. He licked her as if she were an exotic fruit dripping with sweet, succulent nectar. As if he could never get enough of her. He feasted until she was sobbing and pleading, her hands tangled in his hair, her thighs quaking uncontrollably. Just as she began to wonder if it was possible to die from sexual torment, he pushed her over the top and sent her flying apart with a loud, keening wail.

As her body convulsed, he lifted his head and watched her face with a look of dark, masculine satisfaction. “More?”

“
More,
” she whimpered.

He gently unwound her hands from his hair and kissed each of her fingers, his molten eyes blazing down at her with fierce, unmistakable purpose as he rose up over her. He folded her legs back against her chest so that when he drove inside her, his thrust had his whole weight behind him.