Something's Cooking (13 page)

Angie cleaned out
the refrigerator while waiting for Paavo to come home. She had never seen so much mold outside of a botany laboratory. Later, she thumbed through some magazines and looked over his books, but all she could think of was Paavo. Where was he?

At about three in the afternoon, the phone rang. Angie ran to it and picked it up on the second ring.

“Hello?” She was breathless.

“Who's this?” a woman's voice asked.

Angie frowned. “Who are you?”

“I'm trying to reach Paavo Smith. Perhaps I dialed wrong?” The voice was low with a Swedish accent.

“This is his number.”

“Oh.” The woman hesitated. “Are you the cleaning woman?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Is Paavo there? I'd like to speak to him.”

Angie's stomach knotted at the imperious, yet seductive-sounding voice. Her imagination assigned a face and figure to the speaker. Seven feet tall, beautiful, with long, silky white-blond hair, and a voluptuous body, the woman probably pumped iron while skiing on one foot down the Matterhorn. Just Paavo's type.

“He's not home. Can I give him a message?”

“So, who are you, then?”

The woman was impossible. “I'm his ex-wife. His
third
ex-wife. Me and the kids are here to get all the back child-support payments he owes us.”

“Oh!”

“May I tell him who called?”

“No. No, that's all right.” The woman hung up.

Angie slammed down the phone. Her guilt was fleeting.

 

Another two hours passed before she heard her car pull onto the driveway. She wanted to run to the door, but considering the way she had seen him off, she decided a little discretion was called for. She waited, none too patiently, on the sofa.

Paavo opened the front door and walked in. “Hi.”

“You were gone longer than I expected.” God, I sound like a wife, she thought.

His blue eyes glinted, but he said only, “I guess so. I checked in a few times with the patrol.”

“Where did you go?” Again? Her voice clearly
had become possessed, and these questions popped out, uninvited.

“To the zoo.”

“What?” Was the man mad? While she had sat there worried half to death, he had decided to go look at wild animals?

He took off his jacket as he spoke, turning his back to her. “Actually, things were kind of…rough…at Matt's house, and he has, had, a four-year-old, a great kid, named Micky. I took him. It was good to get him away for a while.”

She looked at him with astonishment at first, but then her eyes became misty, and her heart went out to him.

She rushed away to get him a cup of coffee while he changed into a blue heavy-knit sweater and light gray slacks. He'd eaten little that day, and she convinced him to take her out to the dinner he had promised days ago. They went to a small neighborhood cafe where he was known and the food was good and plentiful. She kept reminding herself that she was still angry at him, but the reasons why were growing dimmer.

It was dark when they arrived back at his house. He lit a fire and fed Hercules while Angie poured them each a brandy.

“What's this?” he asked, picking up the dollar bills by the phone.

“I called my mother today. I had to tell her about my going to Bodega Bay. It was a long conversation.”

“I'm not a pauper, Miss Amalfi.” He slammed the money onto the table.

“I know! But I sleep here. I eat your food. I couldn't use your phone like that, too.”

“I wouldn't have cared.”

“I know, but…have you done this kind of thing much?”

He looked at her with eyes narrowed and dangerous. “What do you mean?”

“This. Bringing someone like me here to your house.”

He braced his hands against his hips, a towering figure in the small room. “Oh, sure. It's a regular bed and breakfast. Can't you tell? It's how I make my pin money.” His voice was too quiet. Angie knew that inside he was seething at her.

She shrank back into the sofa cushions. “I didn't mean there was anything wrong with it. I was serious.”

“Never.”

“Never what?”

His eyes caught hers and slowly his cold anger seemed to vanish. “You are never serious, Miss Amalfi.”

Would she ever get past this aloofness of his? She knew others did—Aulis, Matt's child, and even Angie's own mother, but he'd built a wall between them Joshua's horn couldn't bring down. Why? Was it simply because deep down he just didn't care for her, or was there some other reason? She couldn't face the fact that she was no more than a case to him—the case of the woman who was rapidly making a first-class fool of herself over him!

Men had always thrown themselves at her,
pursued her until she grew tired of running. This one treated her as if she had all the feminine appeal of a mushroom.

“By the way,” she said, “you got a call today. A woman with a heavy Swedish-sounding accent. Tell her your cousin was here and she was just joking on the phone.”

“My cousin?”

“She'll understand.”

He gave her a quizzical look. “I see.”

“It sounded like she really wanted to talk to you,” Angie said with forced casualness. “You should call her.”

“Angie, I—”

“Call her. Really. Go see her tonight if you want. I don't mind.”

“Angie—”

“I realize you have a life. I never thought you lived like a monk, you know. Just because you are around me—”

“Miss Amalfi!” He crossed the room to stand in front of her, glaring down at her as she sank further back on the sofa.

“Yes, Inspector Smith?”

He stood for a moment longer and then sat by her side. Slowly, wonder filled his eyes, and all the cold aloofness vanished.

“Miss Amalfi,” he said with a grin that on anyone else would have been labeled goofy, “I do believe you're jealous.”

Hot rage filled her. “Of all the arrogant—!”

He placed a finger against her lips and suddenly the memory of her simple kiss that morning
leaped between them. She stopped talking, her anger fizzling as quickly as it had erupted, and she stayed absolutely still as his head bent toward her. He lifted his finger and in its spot placed his lips. He didn't put his arms around her, didn't hold her. Only their lips met.

Her breath caught in her throat, and her body leaned toward his as her eyes shut. His kiss was gentle, soft, right. Yes, she thought, as her hands lifted to his head and her fingers spread to touch his high, proud cheekbones, then his ears, his hair. She liked the feel of the soft, springy waves of his hair and ran her fingers along the sides of his head, to the back, and then circled her arms around his neck.

He lifted his head, his eyes dark and burning as they traveled over her face. “Damn,” he whispered.

“Paavo…” Her arms tightened.

He slipped his arms around her back and pulled her against him as his mouth descended with crushing force on hers, unleashing the tension that had pulsated between them for so long. Her fingers twisted in his hair as her lips parted and his tongue plunged to meet hers, hot and urgent. There was no gentleness here, no softness. She felt as if she held a caldron in her arms. Just as her heart had opened to his gentleness earlier, she responded to his passion and returned his kisses with equal reckless fury. His mouth traveled over her cheeks, her eyes, then back again to her lips, sending shooting sparks of
desire throughout her body that left her gasping for breath.

He shifted his weight, turning to tuck her body against his, her back pressing the back of the sofa. His hand descended to her breasts, her waist, her hips, and her body burned wherever he touched her. His devouring kisses, and the long, lean, hard feel of his body, his soapy, spicy scent were intoxicating. She slid down on the sofa, so that he covered her. She wanted to feel his weight, his strength protecting her, surrounding her…within her. She arched toward him, aching for his nearness, needing more.

He stopped suddenly and lifted himself from her, his breathing ragged and his eyes clouded with desire—a desire, she knew, that mirrored her own. She could see the struggle raging within him.

“I must be crazy,” he said finally, sitting up, turning away from her as his fingers raked his hair.

“Yes.” The word rolled off her tongue, and her eyes met his as she leaned toward him, her hand pressed lightly against his back.

“I didn't bring you to my house for this.”

“I know.”

“I can't take advantage of this situation.”

“This isn't taking advantage, Paavo.”

She sat up beside him and reached out to touch his hair, but he grabbed her hand in midair. His tone was hard. “Stop. Sometimes you are so naive, for all your outward sophistication.”

She felt as if she'd been slapped. She blinked,
straightened, and pulled her hand away. “Naive?” What was he trying to tell her? Convenient? Naive? Every time she opened herself to him, tried to show warmth, responsiveness, he cut her off at the knees. Well, no more. Her cheeks burned from his rejection. “You don't have to make excuses to me, you know! A warm fire, good brandy, and a presumably functioning male. It meant no more than a way to pass some time. Convenient, in fact. You needn't take it personally, Inspector.”

“I didn't mean—”

She crossed the room, her back to him. “Forget it. It doesn't matter. Not anymore.”

He stood as well, his lips tight as the full impact of her words struck him. “We should get some sleep. We've got a lot of traveling to do tomorrow.”

“Yes.” The word was choked. So he was sending her away, as she had requested, after all. “We have much to do.” She didn't want to leave, but she had no choice. The obstacles were insurmountable. Throughout all this, he'd thrown nothing but accusations at her, though she'd done nothing to deserve them. Childish and naive, he'd said, even pampered. She surreptitiously eyed him standing there looking so angry. And now he meant to shunt her and all her faults far away from him. She shut her eyes a moment, her fingernails digging into her palms. Maybe once she was gone he'd appreciate the real Angie, the Angie his stubbornness had lost him forever.

Nose in the air, eyebrows arched, she said, “Good night,” then sashayed into the bedroom with all the regalness of a queen dismissing a lowly servant.

The ocean fog
had burned off by eight o'clock the next morning, and by nine, the sun was shining.

Angie smiled continuously, saying nothing as she cooked breakfast. Paavo kept a wary eye on her, his expression filled with awkwardness and perhaps even a little guilt over all that had passed between them the night before, as well as a degree of uncertainty over her changed demeanor. As she cleaned up the kitchen she sang, in her off-key voice, one Barry Manilow hit after the other. Paavo's wince told her he wasn't one of Barry's biggest fans. When she got to the song about Lola the showgirl, he looked ready to writhe in agony.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked as she hung the dishcloth on the rod.

“It's so early.” Her voice was sweet as sugarwater.

“It's nine-fifteen. It'll take a couple of hours to get there, and I need to get back to the department some time today.”

“Oh, you need to work? I should have realized. Silly me!” Without giving him a chance to reply, she went into his bedroom and shut the door.

She let an additional fifteen minutes pass before she opened the door and came out. Inspector Smith had paced a groove into his carpet.

“All right.” She nearly sang the words.

“Finally.”

She gave him an innocent smile. “I'm so sorry. I'd hate for you to waste time on my case.”

“Angie—”

“Miss Amalfi, if you don't mind. I've decided you're quite correct. We don't know each other in the slightest, and keeping a strictly professional relationship is important. After all, once this case is over with, our paths certainly won't cross again.” She had the keys to her Ferrari in her hand, and now held them in the air, between her thumb and forefinger. “You'll drive, Inspector?”

“Sure…Miss Amalfi.” He took the keys. “Look, I know you're upset about last night—”

“Upset? You flatter yourself, Inspector.” She breezed out his front door, then glanced over her shoulder at him and batted her eyelashes. “My bags are in the bedroom.”

She sauntered to her car and then leaned against the passenger door and waited. Convenient, was she? Naive? Upset? We'll see, Inspector, she thought.

He came out of his house carrying her bags,
four small pieces of fitted Ferrari luggage. He put them down, locked the deadbolt on the front door of his house, carried the bags to the Ferrari, and put them down again as he unlocked the trunk in the front of her car. She pointed to where the pieces were designed to fit—two in the trunk and two behind the seats. He then opened her car door and swept his arm toward the car seat in a way that would have done Serefina's chauffeur proud. Angie ignored his sarcasm.

His expression was immobile as he got into the driver's seat beside her. The interior of the car felt tiny.

Paavo drove in silence. As they crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, leaving the city, Angie suddenly felt sentimental.

“I've always loved the view from this bridge,” she said. “The city looks so white, like a dove. St. Francis would approve of his namesake, I think.”

“Soon you'll be able to enjoy the city again, just like you used to do.”

“Right.” She sank back against the plush leather seat. Why didn't the thought of the way she used to live please her?

She stole a glance at Paavo, his gaze fixed upon the roadway. He looked foreboding, brooding, even sexy. She sighed and turned her attention to the rolling hills and bay inlets that were Marin County. She didn't want to notice him any longer. Why was it that the more she pushed him away, the more she wanted him to wrap his arms around her and make her fears vanish? Why did
she continue to throw herself against a brick wall—hell, a
steel
wall—with this man?

She tightened her jaw. He'd been a challenge, and nothing more. Other men threw themselves at her, but he didn't,
ergo
she wanted him. He was a sort of sexual Rubik's cube to her, and now playtime was over. No big deal.

She looked at his strong hands gripping the steering wheel and folded her own hands on her lap. He glanced at her, his gaze drifting upward, leaving a trail of heat in its wake until his eyes met hers. He quickly turned away.

Her throat tightened. She kept her eyes forward, not daring to look at him again as the Ferrari carried them over the coastal mountains and through groves of California redwoods to the twisting, narrow cliffside highway that edged the Pacific Ocean.

 

In the heart of Bodega Bay, a once-flourishing fishing village turned artists' colony, they found the realtor from whom Angie had rented a house. The realtor turned over the key and instructions, and Angie turned over a healthy deposit.

Paavo swung the Ferrari into the driveway of a modern, ranch-style house on a beautiful setting overlooking the ocean. The house, the town, the hills, and the ocean carried the serenity and peacefulness Angie longed for. But they also held loneliness.

Paavo got out of the car and looked at the
house, then at Angie. “It's rather nice,” he said wryly.

Whatever was the man thinking of now? The place wasn't particularly large. The realtor had told her it had only two bedrooms, a living/dining room combination, kitchen, and small den. There was a laundry room, two and a half baths, and a hot tub. The garage fit only two cars.

She shrugged and got out of the car. “It's only a modest place. But if I'm not going to live in an apartment, I need some amenities.”

“Without a doubt.”

Paavo picked up two of her suitcases and followed her into the living room. A wall of windows and glass doors leading to a rear patio framed a majestic view of the ocean. The room was richly furnished in rustic modern style, with leather and heavy hand-rubbed woods that looked both comfortable and functional.

Paavo said nothing, but she'd come to know him well enough to see the subtle softening of his eyes as he looked over the room, and the hint of a smile as he absorbed the view. She knew he liked what lay before him.

If only he'd stay, she thought, her heart wrenching as she watched him quickly check out the house. She had to admit that the more she learned about him, the more she cared, and the more she wanted to find a way to bring him some happiness. His will was strong and his heart, she had learned, was as big as he was. Even when she had been annoying him that morning, she wanted him with her. She felt lost when he wasn't near.
She remembered his kisses, the feel of his arms and hands holding her, caressing her, just last night. Yes, she wanted him—for more than companionship.

Flustered by her thoughts, she carried a suitcase into the master bedroom. She heard Paavo go out to the car to pick up the rest of her things. In a moment he was behind her, putting down her other suitcases.

“If you'll drop me off at the police station,” he said, “I'll talk to the police, then get a rental car back to the city.”

She took a deep breath. He really was leaving her. “Of course, I'll drive you,” she whispered.

She suddenly felt like a traitor, hiding in safety while Paavo went out there, looking for the one who had killed Matt and Sam, and for whoever it was who wanted to kill her. “I don't suppose you'd like some lunch before you go?”

He stepped toward her as if drawn without volition, and then his shoulders stiffened and he turned away. “I'd better not. It's a long drive back, and I've got a lot of work to do.”

“I see.” She grabbed her car keys and hurried from the house. Paavo followed.

A few minutes later, she pulled up in front of the police station. “Do you want me to wait?” she asked.

“No. They'll help me get a car back.”

“I see. Well, I guess that's it then.”

He nodded.

“You'll let me know when it's safe to go home, right?”

“Someone will contact you.”

Someone
. She nodded.

He put his hand on the car door-handle. “Good-bye, Miss Amalfi.”

“Take care of yourself, Inspector.”

He got out of the car and walked toward the police station. Angie drove off before he reached it. Some things were too hard to watch.