One More Night with You (14 page)

Zaf stoically absorbed every word. What she said wasn't anything he hadn't already told himself. It was her right to be angry. He could handle it, but he had no intention of setting aside his mission now that she knew he'd been more than a man watching DiGorgio from a distance.

“I can only pray to Mary that your
protection
doesn't send me to the morgue,” she said bitterly, taking her cake carrier from the counter and limping to the entryway.

“Let me help you put that in your car,” he said.

“No. I can handle this.” Without looking back, she added, “Don't come to the boutique today. I'll be safe with my friends.”

“Be mad if you want, but I can't agree to that.”

“I don't
want
to be mad. I don't want to feel as if I'm having sex with a stranger. I don't want to wonder if every other sentence you say is a lie or part of some grand plan you have going. I swear to you, I don't want to think about the destruction and casualties your way of thinking can leave in the wake. So agree, Zaf. I'll be trying on a dress then having dinner with my friends. I won't need your services tonight.”

“What do you need, then?”

“Space. Time. I need to know if I can forgive you for this. A man ultimately killed himself and another tried to because of your crazy risky plan. You've been with me for days now, inside my house, inside me, and you didn't tell me until I pried the truth out of you. That hurts me, Zaf.”

“Knowing or not knowing doesn't change the reality that DiGorgio has been watching you.”

“It's not your business to filter my knowledge. You don't get to pick and choose what information I take in. I'm not a child and I'm not simple.”

“You're not entitled to every detail of the things I've done and the reasons why,” he served back.

“Oh? So you'll have your secrets and I'll have mine?”

“That's how it is. Just because I'm not prying the truth out of you doesn't mean I don't know what kind of job the Blues hired you for.”

Her shoulders slumped, but only for a fraction of a moment before she shot back, “It's no secret that I'm part of the team's anti-drug abuse program.”

“Don't try to snow a man who can see right through you. I familiarized myself with the Blues. They care about the shield and their business interests. Their style isn't to hold their men's hands. If anyone's violating a drug policy, Marshall Blue and his wife probably want to cut 'em. Camp numbers are inflated. As good as any player is, there's someone else ready and able to take his place. So what I think they hired you to do is weed out the users.”

“A pun, now? Not very funny.”

“Wasn't meant to be. Take it however the hell you want, but they aren't paying you to tout the virtues of a drug-free lifestyle. They want you to find out who's abusing so they can clean things up. Am I right or am I right?”

“Be quiet.”

Nerve struck, but he wasn't done.

“That's why you're suddenly a fixture at NFL social events and hanging back at camp long after the Good Samaritan group wraps up, isn't it?” Zaf knew a double agent when he came across one, and she was carrying out her orders to the letter—buddying up to the players and staff, going off to check-in meetings with the team's owners. “That's why you let TreShawn Dibbs box you in at the bar that night in the Mirage, isn't it?”

He'd noticed
that
, too. At first perception, he hadn't liked the picture of the guy touching her. But her body language and the almost clinical way she reacted to Dibbs's flirting was reminiscent of the technique she used when she was undercover.

Whether she was working a cover or not, Zaf didn't appreciate another man touching his woman. It wasn't fair of him to feel possessive, particularly when he couldn't provide the life she deserved. He'd never been good about sharing.

“What if the thing with TreShawn is genuine?” she challenged quietly. “If I like having the attention of a man who doesn't remind me of my cane and my limp?”

“A man who makes it easy for you to lie to yourself?”

“Zaf, of all the men who approach me, I would estimate about ninety percent of them lose interest when they realize I carry a stick. It's a symbol of damage and neediness, I suppose, and it sucks major
huevos
.”

So he reminded her of her vulnerabilities, and TreShawn Dibbs helped her forget them. “Be honest with me, Jo. Do you want to forget reality all the time, or are you letting him circle you because you think he's a name you can turn in to the Blues?”

“I...I don't know, Zaf.”

“Yeah? I think you do, deep down where'd you need to dig, and dig hard, to find it. You left that club with me. You remember what we did before we ended up there, and what we did when we came back here.”

He did, in tormenting vivid detail. Being with her wore him out, wrung him out, and he couldn't see himself ever getting enough of it.

“When it comes to that,” she said, “you're the only one. You're the only one getting that part of me.”

“Would that still be true if giving that part of you to Dibbs or anyone else could score you a name to turn in to the Blues?”

“
¡Cállate!
I won't listen to you tear me down when I am doing nothing wrong.”

“Nothing illegal. An agenda can be legal but still all kinds of wrong.”

“Really? Just consider, then, that if you believed that five years ago, I wouldn't have been shot.” She sighed. “I don't want to do this. I don't want to keep throwing this in your face. It hurts you and it hurts me.”

“I'm a hypocritical bastard. I get it. But I don't want to see you make the mistakes I did.”

“Why do you care so much if you never loved me?”

Zaf wouldn't answer that. She'd already extracted so much from him, and he wouldn't compromise her further by rattling her judgment. Giving her reasons to love him would accomplish just that. She was sharper—they both were—when emotions were in check.

“Listen to me. DiGorgio was watching you before I got involved,” he said gravely. “That's
why
I got involved.” He had been called from his self-perpetuated exile for her. From the beginning, it had been about guarding her.

“Are you giving me reasons why now?” She turned to face him. “Why go to such lengths for a woman you never loved?”

Zaf hopped off the counter and paused in front of her as he left the kitchen. “Before you ask that question again, give yourself some space and time to think about what the answer might be and decide if you're ready to handle that kind of truth.”

“Zaf—”

“Get going, Jo. It's half past nine.”

* * *

Some secrets were a woman's to keep.

Joey didn't believe in letting any man dictate her schedule—even the fake boyfriend in charge of ensuring her safety—and figured Zaf would persuade her to cancel her spur-of-the-moment lunch plans if he knew about them, so she'd kept mum when he asked her what she had lined up for the day.

Their fight still ringing through her system, she was glad she had followed her instinct to do whatever the hell she wanted because this was still
her
life.

In front of CCL, she saw the man from before. Same corduroy pants, which appeared soiled with mud now. Around him, people spilled out of the library as others pursued it. Those who didn't pretend to not see him passed with glances that ranged from suspicious to irritated to repulsed.

She didn't feel sorry for him. She felt ashamed of the others—and herself, for having put cash in his hand with the belief that it would impact his life in some meaningful way. Climbing the steps with her tote bag hanging off a shoulder and her cane reflecting the merciless sunlight, she greeted him, “Any room for me on that step?”

“Well, hello, friend.” The man scooted over and she settled next to him, much to the bewilderment and annoyance of the patrons coming and going. “Back again? You were here yesterday.”

Joey shook her head, holding concern at bay. The man likely wouldn't take too kindly to a “poor you” look. “No, it's been longer than that. The days go by faster now, it seems. When I was a kid, summers were endless. Barn chores in the morning, horseback riding in the afternoon and superslow nights of sneaking lemonade from the fridge and watching fireflies out the window.” She smiled at the simplicity of those Texas summers. “I whined and complained about being bored, but my friend and I always found a way to get ourselves into trouble. We made our own excitement. All that's changed now.” She spied him, then retrieved a Nickel's sub sandwich from her bag and unwrapped it on her lap. Taking half for herself, she gave him the other. “What were summers like for you when you were a kid?”

“Same as yours,” he said. “Horses and chores and the like. I grew up on a farm. You?”

“A ranch.”

“My buddies and I rode like the wind on bikes. We used to play baseball—modified, though. Instead of baseballs, we used melons. Instead of bats, we used lumber. Got a lot of splinters that way.”

She smiled at that and they ate in silence for several minutes.

“Aren't you going in the library?” he asked.

“Nope, not today.”

Realization blossomed in his eyes. “You made the trip just to share a sandwich with me?”

“I was hungry and was hoping you might join me.” She crushed the wrapper and brushed crumbs off her pants. “How are you coming along with the Copernicus biography?”

“I finished it.”

“Yeah?”

“Four times already. A librarian gave it to me and asked me to keep it.”

“Kind librarian.” Providing it was an act of kindness and not a gesture to shoo him out of the building. “So where do you usually read your books?”

“Here.”

“Las Vegas is a far cry from farm life,” Joey said gently. “Where are you, usually, when the fireflies come out?”

“Waiting for them.”

Meaning he slept outside? Then he was homeless. “When it rains and there's lightning, where are you?” she pushed, needing to know, needing to find a way to lead him to better circumstances.

“I think these are getting to be rude questions,” he said, and his lucidity was a startling contrast to his fuzzy demeanor when she'd sat down. Then again, he'd just put some solid food in his belly, so perhaps the sustenance was starting to help clear his mind.

“That's not my intention,” she said, but she wasn't sorry for prying if it'd help him get off the street and into a shelter with a bed and a shower and access to three squares a day. “I should go. But I think I'll be back tomorrow around this time to eat my lunch.”

He considered her with those rheumy eyes under deeply hooded lids, and nodded. “You might be in the mood for soup and a baguette. There's a place down the way here on Flamingo that makes a nice-tasting lemon chicken soup.”

“Thanks for the rec.” Her memory fell back to the afternoon she'd met him and how she'd mentally cringed at the potato chip he had given her with his bare hand. Now, humbled, she outstretched her hand and decided she wouldn't be offended if he didn't accept it. “I'm Joey.”

“Cliff.”

When he shook her hand and she made her way down the steps, she was a little reluctant to leave. Sitting in front of a library, sharing a sandwich with a stranger, was an escape. For a short while she hadn't thought about researching controlled pharmaceuticals, sniffing out substance-abusing athletes or outmaneuvering a disgruntled casino owner with the riches of a pharaoh.

She
had
thought about Zaf. Lately she held him in her mind. It must have everything to do with close proximity and the peculiar way his tense energy melded with hers. Their hearts communicated, she was certain of that.

Yet, in anger she'd asked him if he had a heart.

She friggin' hated the way they'd left things this morning. They were both guilty of putting too much out there and unleashing emotion that would do neither of them any good.

More than that, she hated not being in on his secrets. The Arizona bust crumbled because he hadn't trusted her with the important-as-all-hell detail that he was wearing a mask and there was another layer to their mission. They'd been in love but where was the trust?

Oh, but wait. The love had been one-sided then.

As she turned the Ferrari's engine and headed for the posh bridal boutique where her friends waited, she tried to block a new suspicion. Fear, really. It had already formed, though, and now she knew—the love was
still
one-sided.

Chapter 9

B
ubbly went a long way toward revitalizing Joey's pep and good cheer. After one delicate flute's worth had teased her system, she remained mostly unaffected and stuck on the angry argument she'd left unresolved. So she had another, graciously nodding from a fainting couch in LJD's Couture Brides' drawing room when one of Leda J. Dawson's assistants addressed her. “More champagne, Miss de la Peña?”

Joey was weighing the pros and cons of a third glass when Temperance Blue used her mother-of-the-bride authority to cut her off and switch her to a choice of mineral water or Panama-imported coffee.

“The beverage selection is superior, that's true, but try not to consume too much now,” Tem advised in her cloud-soft voice as she beckoned the assistant to take away the Boërl and Kroff on its polished platter. “Our timeline doesn't give us much leeway for adjustments and alterations, so today's measurements will need to be spot-on. Do you have a tendency to bloat? Because I'll have to ask you to refrain from sampling the juice, as well.”

“But...” Joey indicated Charlotte's bridesmaids, sprinkled throughout the drawing room that looked more appropriate to host elegant balls than house wedding gowns. A couple of the women had just returned from their fittings in the back of the salon, and the rest waited to be pulled and stuffed and pinched and cinched. “They're drinking juice. Martha has milk.”

“Martha's child is apparently as dramatic as she is, and has given the girl heartburn. Only dairy offers any relief—though I think it's a convenient excuse to overindulge in ice cream and cheesecake and whatever else she's unwisely introducing to her baby. Honestly, she's rolling the dice, and it's by the grace of God that her body has the genetics to resist that kind of overeating.”

The woman in question stood between her sisters, the tallest of the three Blue girls, a vision of perfect pregnancy health. Her melon-sized baby bump was covered with a short fluttery dress, and apparently her feet weren't too swollen to deprive her of fashionable high heels.

Martha broke away from the huddle to go to her teenage foster daughter, who was ogling a rather risqué designer gown displayed in a lighted curio cabinet.

Charlotte was Joey's best friend, but how she admired Martha Ryder's boldness and courage to go for what she wanted—despite a fierce and sort of oppressive mother standing in her way at every critical turn.

“I'd say she and her doctors are in the best position to determine what is and isn't healthy for her baby,” Joey told Tem firmly, though she accepted a glass of mineral water with a peaceful smile.

No use pissing the woman off twice in a single day. Earlier at the Slayers' administrative offices, she had informed Tem and Marshall that she'd had knowledge of TreShawn Dibbs's party—so did the media, though no arrests or other complications had come of it, and they'd swiftly lost interest. When she admitted she'd turned down the player's invitation, thereby throwing away the opportunity to scan the place for illegal substances, the Blues had all but lost their shit.

TreShawn's infamous reputation clung to him, and there was added concern about the possibility of his contaminating the roster. Charlotte's friendship with him could, and likely would, push her into a precarious position.

So Joey agreed to take him up on his next invitation. In all likelihood there wouldn't be another. At the club in the Mirage, his flirting and her rejection had been unmistakable. She'd introduced Zaf as her boyfriend, and if TreShawn was a stand-up guy, he wouldn't tempt her to visit his place, and he definitely wouldn't try to kiss her again.

Another few seconds and it might've happened if she hadn't turned her face or if Zaf's arrival hadn't brought things back into clarity.

In fact, it had been during that moment, when she stood at the bar with a good-looking athlete in front of her and the man from the darkest chapter of her past in the background, that she'd tested the waters of escaping her reality. TreShawn made her feel desired, sexy and as whole as any other woman—but their connection was false. When Zaf had stepped into her sights, she'd
known
.

Zaf didn't let her ignore her cane and who she was now. He was the brightest and most devastating part of her, and damn Miz Willa for correctly pegging her as someone who was in love but didn't want to be.

This was Joey's life, and she had the final say-so in whether or not she would allow him to leave footprints on her heart again.

“I can't do that.”

“Pardon me?” Tem sipped from her own champagne flute.

“Nothing. My mind wandered.”

“Then I was right to switch you to water.”

“Has everyone arrived?” This from the bride whisperer herself, Leda J. Dawson. She was Wedding Gown Expert Barbie brought to life, with meticulously trimmed blond hair and clear blue eyes that seemed to encourage “Just lend me your troubles, darlin'.”

Leda greeted everyone individually, chatting briefly with the ladies she'd previously met. The only newcomers were Joey and Martha's foster daughter, Avery.

“We have a stylist specifically for Avery,” the woman said, adding an enchanting smile. “The others are here for final measurements. A last-minute maid of honor isn't typical, but some of my most brilliant work has come from unconventional situations. Besides, our bride is quite an independent one, and she doesn't wish to overburden you with duties. Essentially, we need to get you fitted, accessorized and review your ceremony duties concerning the train, bouquet, et cetera.”

“Great. Let's all go check out the dress—”

“Might I have a moment with you first? I'd like to give you a tour and explain the palette. Catch you up.”

“Weddings have palettes?” Joey asked as Leda summoned her from the fainting couch, and the woman looked flabbergasted.

“Leda's approach is very artistic,” Tem contributed, sending them off with a wave of her flawlessly manicured hand. “I imagine you'll want a wedding of your own after touring this salon.”

That was laughable, being she had no genuine romantic prospects willing to slip a ring on her finger even if she'd allow it. Though she did pause, captivated, at a glimmering glass case displaying gowns, veils and jewelry Leda J. Dawson's grandmother had designed during the Truman administration.

The place held suites reserved for brides' entourages. Charlotte's suite resembled a fancy old-fashioned sitting room. A pedestal and stepstool sat in the center. A pin board covered half of a wall, and it was cluttered with designs, handwritten notes, fabric swatches and photographs of venues, flowers and hairstyles.

“It's a lot, isn't it?” Charlotte said, entering the room and joining Joey and Leda in front of the pin board.

“It's kind of perfect.” If the actual event even partly resembled the board, it would be an unforgettably beautiful affair. “So this is really, seriously happening. Charlotte Blue and Nate Franco are getting married.”

“Yup, that's what the invitations say.” Charlotte smiled, but there was a question in it.
Are things going okay?

Since Gian DiGorgio's unwanted presence at Desert Luck Center, Charlotte had begun to check in with her more often, and she'd come close to telling her fiancé everything.

Joey nodded as if to say, “I'm all right.”

“I'm glad you're here, Joey. Nate is, too. We wanted you to be a part of this.”

“Hey, no sappy talk right now. My eye makeup is on point.”

“It certainly is,” Leda agreed with approval. “And not to worry about smudging anything. You made a wise choice to wear a button-down top, and you'll be stepping into your gown.”

She was referencing the miniature debacle that had happened a short while ago when the first bridesmaid, Charlotte's college friend Krissy O'Claire-Lewis, had tried to tug her clinging crewneck shirt over an eight-months-preggers belly, glasses and an uncontrollable mane of curly hair. What made matters worse was her baby started dancing on her bladder while she was struggling to free herself.

Fortunately, someone had been able to rescue her from disaster and mortification that would've likely caused permanent social damage.

“Shall I get the design now?” Leda asked Charlotte.

“Please.” When Leda strode away, Charlotte told Joey, “You're already aware that your maid of honor gown will vary slightly from the bridesmaids dresses, but I asked Leda to design something in addition.”

Joey touched her hair. “Don't say it's a tiara. It takes a unique kind of grace to pull off a tiara, and I'm just not the type.”

“Oh... Well, first, we did have a tiara in mind for you, so we'll go ahead and nix that. Second, you totally do have grace, but we'll analyze that another time. Third, that's not what I was referring to.” Charlotte motioned to Leda, who revealed an image on her tablet.

A cane. But it had the flair and kick-ass quality of a royal scepter, and was by far more glamorous than any accessory she owned. It was ornamental, breathtaking. According to the notes, it was to be made of white gold and embellished with amethyst gemstones and diamonds.

“Lottie—it's too—I can't possibly—” She made grabby hands for the tablet. “I love it. And you. You're the
best
best friend a girl could ask for.”

“Yay!” Charlotte clapped her hands. “So in addition to being fitted for your gown, you'll be measured for the cane. We want to make sure it's ergonomic. Oh, and like your everyday canes, this one will be adjustable.”

“You considered everything.”

“Hey, I'm just a bride looking out for her crew. Since you're hosting a wicked bridal shower that'll scandalize my mom, I figured I owed you this.”

Leda tsked. “Shame on you,” she said, but with a smirk.

“Don't warn her,” Charlotte said.

“I won't. I told Tem when she commissioned me for this wedding that my allegiance is to the bride.” She fluffed her hair. “But it'd be nice to find myself with an invitation to this scandalizing event. There
will
be buff strippers, won't there?”

“Absolutely,” Joey assured, while Charlotte stared.

“Miss Blue, don't look at me like that. I'm a professional artist. I appreciate the male physique. It's a beautiful thing, especially when it's wearing nothing but a G-string.”

“I think you were a nice, sweet bridal consultant before you met the lot of us,” Charlotte said to Leda. “We corrupted you, didn't we? Was it Martha? She's the freakiest of us all... Wait, no, Joey is.”

Joey cheered as the others laughed. “Thank you, thank you. It's an honor.”

“We'll take the cane measurement now,” Leda decided, touching a finger to the corner of her eyes to stave off tears. “Cassidy? A minute, please?”

Two of Leda's assistants were gliding in to prepare the dressing rooms for the rest of the bridesmaids' fittings. Garment bags boasting the ladies' names had been hung on the doors. The woman named Cassidy passed her task to another associate and came forth to help record measurements.

By the time they were finished, the entire entourage had gravitated to the suite. Drinks were going around again, and since only a couple of people could indulge in the luxurious perfection of the champagne, Joey sneaked another glass when Tem was occupied by conversation.

“Is it delicious?” Danica Blue asked, perhaps noticing Joey's almost-orgasmic reaction to the champagne.

“Uh-huh. Get a glass. Flutes are still going around.”

“Actually—” Danica hesitated, then smoothed her wispy bangs and started slinking toward the dressing rooms. “Never mind. I think I saw someone come through with my dress. Better get this measurement out of the way.”

“Okay.” Joey went to her own dressing room and found it stocked with a basket of sewing instruments, a wide stepstool and a vase full of fat apricot-and-cream roses.

It was all so pristinely elegant that she was overly careful with each movement so as not to mar or damage anything as she stripped to her undies.

A knock on the door made her yelp.

“Miss de la Peña, do you need any help?” someone called through the door.

“Nope, I can manage.” Getting dressed every day wasn't a dramatic event, so long as she kept all articles within reach and didn't have to walk more than a few steps. Her damaged hip couldn't bear much weight and when it locked up, motion was impossible. “Just step in, right?”

“Right. Press the little call button near the top of the stall door when you're ready to be zipped.”

Joey opened the garment bag and sighed. The gown, deep lavender with a strapless beaded bodice and a flared lace-over-silk skirt, was fit for the type of princess who'd ditch the ball and sneak off into the night with a man too devilish and sexy to be considered a princely hero.

“Lottie, you know me too well, don't you?” When she stepped into the gown and faced the mirror, she almost cried. A decent tan, proper underthings and accessories would complete the transformation, but already she was convinced that Leda J. Dawson was more of a fairy godmother than a gown-designing bridal consultant.

“Ow—damn it!”

Joey's head cocked in the direction of the outburst. She didn't hear any knocks on the neighboring stall doors and listened to the silence closely for muffled sounds.

“Ow, ow, ow!”

“Uh, hello?” she called, holding the dress up with one hand and grabbing her cane with the other. The voice came from the next stall.

“Joey?”

“Danica, you're still trying on your dress?”

“Yes.” Radio silence. “Ma's going to be pissed.”

Uh-oh.
This didn't sound encouraging.

“Want a stepstool chat?”

“Yeah.”

Joey carefully got on her stool and made it to the second tier before she was able to comfortably see over the top of the stall. Danica was already there, her arms folded on top of the partition. “What's the matter?”