Sacred Sins (15 page)

She turned to face him. “That's very specific.”

“Yeah. Your hair's caught.”

He dipped his hand under the collar of her jacket and freed it. He took a step forward, almost without thinking, and had her against the closet door. Her face tilted up, and there was a wariness in her eyes he'd noticed before. She wore little makeup, the sleek, polished look that was so much a part of her image replaced by a warm accessibility a smart man would recognize as dangerous. He knew what he wanted, and was comfortable with the swift rush of desire. The degree of it was another matter. When you wanted too much, too quickly, he thought, it was best to take things slow.

His mouth was close to hers. His hand was still on her hair. “You like butter on your popcorn?”

Tess didn't know whether to laugh or curse. Deciding to do neither, she told herself she was relaxed. “Tons of it.”

“Good. Then I don't have to spring for two boxes. It's cold outside,” he added, leaning away from her. “You'll need gloves.”

He drew out his own scarred black leather ones before he opened the door.

“I'
D
forgotten just how frightening those movies were.”

It was dark when Tess settled back in his car, sated with pizza and cheap red wine. The air was biting, stinging her cheeks with the first brush of winter before she slid into Ben's car. Neither the cold nor the media was keeping Washington indoors. The Saturday-night stream of traffic rolled by, on its way to clubs, supper, and parties.

“I've always appreciated the way the cop gets the girl in the
House of Wax
.”

“All Vincent needed was a good analyst,” she said mildly as Ben adjusted the radio.

“Sure, and he'd have dumped you in the vat, coated you with wax, and turned you into…” He turned his head for a narrowed-eyed study. “Helen of Troy, I think.”

“Not bad.” She pursed her lips. “Of course, some psychiatrists might say you chose that, subconsciously linking yourself with Paris.”

“As a cop, I wouldn't romanticize kidnapping.”

“Pity.” She let her eyes half close, not even aware of how easy it was for her to relax with him. The heater hummed in accompaniment to the moody music from the car radio. She remembered the lyrics and sang them in her head.

“Tired?”

“No, comfortable.” As soon as the words were out, she straightened. “I'll probably have a few nightmares. Horror movies are a wonderful escape valve for real tensions. I guarantee no one in that theater was thinking about their next insurance payment or acid rain.”

He let out a breezy chuckle as he drove out of the parking lot. “You know, Doc, some people might look at it as simple entertainment. It didn't seem like you were
thinking escape valve when you dug holes in my arm when our heroine was running through the fog.”

“It must have been the woman on the other side of you.”

“I was sitting on the aisle.”

“She had a long reach. You missed the turn to my apartment.”

“I didn't miss it. I didn't take it. You said you weren't tired.”

“I'm not.” She wasn't sure she'd ever felt more awake, more alive. The song seemed to be playing just under her skin, promising romance and exquisite heartache. She'd always thought the first was somehow imcomplete without the second. “Are we going somewhere?”

“A little place I know where the music's good and they don't water down the liquor.”

She ran her tongue over her teeth. “I'd like that.” She was in the mood for music, something bluesy maybe, with the ache of a tenor sax. “I suppose in a professional capacity you're well acquainted with the local bars.”

“I've got a working knowledge.” He punched in his car lighter. “You're not the bar type.”

Interested, she faced him. His profile was in shadows, struck intermittently by streetlights. It was funny how sometimes he looked safe, solid, the kind of man a woman might run to if it were dark. Then the light struck his face another way, and the planes and angles were highlighted. A woman might run from him. She shook off the thought. She'd made a policy not to analyze men she dated. Too often you learned more than you wanted to know.

“Is there a type?”

“Yeah.” And he knew them all. “You're not it. Hotel lounge. Champagne cocktails at the Mayflower or the Hotel Washington.”

“Now who's doing psychological profiles, Detective?”

“You've got to be able to type people in my business, Doc.” He pulled up and maneuvered into a space between a Honda three-wheeler and a Chevette hatchback. Before he turned off the key, he wondered if he was making a mistake.

“What's this?”

“This.” He pulled out the keys but left them jingling in his hand. “Is where I live.”

She looked out the window at a four-story apartment building with faded red brick and green awnings. “Oh.”

“I don't have any champagne.”

Her decision. She understood him well enough to understand that. But she understood little else about him. The car was warm and quiet. Safe. Inside, she didn't know what to expect. She knew herself well enough to understand how seldom she took risks. Maybe it was time.

“You have scotch?” She turned back to see his smile.

“Yeah.”

“That'll do.”

The air snapped cold the moment she stepped from the car. Winter wasn't going to wait for the calendar, she thought, then shuddered, thinking of another calendar, one with the Madonna and Child on the cover. The little twist of fear had her looking up and down the street. A block away a truck let out a blast of exhaust.

“Come on.” Ben stood in a pool of light from a streetlamp; the light bounced from the planes of his face. “You're cold.”

“Yes.” She shivered again when his arm went around her shoulders.

He led her inside. There were about a dozen mail slots against one wall. The pale green carpet was clean but almost threadbare. There was no lobby, no security guard at a desk, only a dim set of stairs.

“It's certainly a quiet building,” she said as they climbed to the second floor.

“Everybody here pretty much minds their own business.”

There was a faint scent of cooking in the hall when he stopped to unlock his door. The light overhead winked weakly.

His apartment was tidier than she'd expected. It was more than just a general preconception of a man living alone, Tess realized. Ben seemed too relaxed and casual in other areas to bother clearing dust or old magazines. Then she decided she was wrong. The room might be clean, but it did reflect his style.

The sofa was the dominant piece of furniture. Low and far from new, it was plumped with throw pillows. A Dagwood couch, Tess thought. One that simply begged you to relax and take a nap. There were posters rather than paintings. Toulouse-Lautrec's cancan dancers, a single woman's leg standing in a four inch heel, skimmed at the thigh with white lace. There was a Dieffenbachia thriving away in a plastic margarine bowl. And books. One wall was nearly filled with them. Delighted, she pulled out a worn hardbacked copy of
East of Eden
. As Ben's hands went to her shoulders, she opened the flyleaf.

“To Ben.” She read the spiky, feminine handwriting. “Kiss, kiss. Bambi.” Putting her tongue in her cheek, she closed it. “Bambi?”

“Used bookstore.” He removed her jacket. “Fascinating places. Never can tell what you'll pick up.”

“Did you pick up the book or Bambi?”

“Never mind.” He took the copy from her and stuck it back on the shelf.

“Do you know, one gets an immediate mental image from certain names?”

“Yeah. Scotch, straight up, right?”

“Right.” A streak of gray whizzed by and landed on a red pillow. “A cat too?” Amused, Tess strolled over to stroke it. “What's his name?”

“Her. She proved that by having kittens in the bathtub last year.” The cat rolled over so Tess could scratch her belly. “I call her D.C.”

“As in Washington?”

“As in Dumb Cat.”

“It's a wonder she doesn't have a complex.” Running her hands over the rounded belly again, Tess wondered if she should warn him he'd be getting another litter of gifts in a month or so.

“She runs into walls. On purpose.”

“I could refer you to an excellent pet psychologist.”

He laughed, but wasn't entirely sure she was joking. “I'd better get those drinks.”

When he went into the kitchen, she rose to look at his view from the window. The streets weren't as quiet as her neighborhood. Traffic moved by at a steady clip, droning and grunting along. He wouldn't take himself far from the action, she thought, and remembered she hadn't paid any attention to what direction he'd taken. She could be anywhere in the city. She expected un-ease, and instead felt a sense of freedom.

“I promised you music.”

She turned and looked at him. The simple dun-colored sweater and faded jeans he wore suited him. She'd thought once that he understood himself very well. Now it would be foolish to deny that she wanted to understand him.

“Yes, you did.”

He handed her a glass and thought about how different she was, and how different she looked from any other woman he'd brought here. That quiet class of hers demanded that a man swallow his lust and take the
whole person. Wondering if he was ready to, he set down his own glass and flipped through his records.

When he set one on the turntable, Tess heard the brassy heat of jazz. “Leon Redbone,” she said.

He shook his head as he turned toward her. “You keep surprising me.”

“My grandfather's one of his biggest fans.” Sipping her drink, she walked over to pick up the album cover. “It seems the two of you have quite a lot in common.”

“Me and the senator?” Ben laughed before he sipped his vodka. “I'll bet.”

“I'm serious. You'll have to meet him.”

Meeting a woman's family was something he associated with wedding rings and orange blossoms. He'd always avoided it. “Why don't we—” The phone rang and he swore, setting down his glass. “I'd ignore it, but I'm on call.”

“You don't have to explain those things to a doctor.”

“Yeah.” He picked up the phone beside the couch. “Paris. Oh, yeah. Hi.”

It didn't take a trained psychiatrist to understand there was a woman on the other end. Tess smiled into her drink and went back to the view.

“No, I've been tied up. Look, sugar—” The minute the word was out, he winced. Tess kept her back to him. “I'm on a case, you know? No, I didn't forget about… I didn't forget. Listen, I'll have to get back to you when things lighten up. I don't know, weeks, maybe months. You really ought to try that marine. Sure. See ya.” He hung up, cleared his throat, and reached for his drink again. “Wrong number.”

It was so easy to laugh. She turned, leaned against the windowsill, and gave in to it. “Oh, really?”

“Enjoyed that, didn't you?”

“Immensely.”

“If I'd known you'd get such a kick out of it, I'd have invited her up.”

“Ah, the male ego.” With one hand crossed over her body, she lifted the drink again. She was still laughing at him. The humor didn't fade when he walked over and took the drink from her hand. The warm, approachable look was back. He felt the pull of it, the danger of it, the need for it.

“I'm glad you're here.”

“So am I.”

“You know, Doc…” He let his fingers play through her hair. The gesture was as friendly as before, but not as cautious. “There's one thing we haven't done together.”

She withdrew at that. He sensed it though she hadn't moved away. He continued to toy with her hair as he drew her closer. His breath brushed over her lips.

“Dance,” he murmured, and laid his cheek against hers. Whether her sigh was of pleasure or relief, he didn't know, but she was nearly relaxed against him. “There's something I've noticed about you.”

“What?”

“You feel good.” His lips moved over her ear as they swayed, hardly moving from one spot. “Real good.”

“Ben—”

“Relax.” He made long slow strokes up her back and down again. “Another thing I've noticed is that you don't relax much.”

His body was hard against hers, his lips warm against her temple. “At the moment, it isn't easy.”

“Good.” He liked the way her hair smelled, fresh and rich without the overlay of scented shampoos, gels, and sprays. From the easy way her body blended with his, he knew she wore nothing but skin under the sweater. He imagined away the layer of material and let the heat rise.

“You know, Doc, I haven't been sleeping well.”

Her eyes were nearly closed, but it wasn't because of relaxation. “You've got a lot on your mind with this case.”

“Yeah. But there's something else that's been on my mind.”

“What?”

“You.” He drew her back a little. Eyes open and on hers, he teased her mouth. “I can't stop thinking about you. I think I have a problem.”

“I… my caseload's pretty heavy right now.”

“Private sessions.” As he'd wanted to all evening, he slipped his hands under her sweater and let her skin warm him. “Starting tonight.”

She felt the ridge of callus below his fingers rub up her spine. “I don't think—” But he stopped her with a kiss, a long, slow melding of lips that had his own heart racing. There was a hesitation in her that licked at his desire. She'd been a challenge from the beginning, and maybe a mistake. He was beyond caring.