Take Me Tonight (10 page)

All very
fine.

She sipped her red wine, nearly draining the glass. It was her second since they’d gotten back, when he’d produced a small duffle bag from the trunk of his car, taken a shower, and changed into jeans and a T-shirt. All she’d done was drink the wine he’d uncorked and then watch him prepare his feast.

Since he entered the kitchen, he’d done a running commentary on olive oil, and how the heel of a hand and a sharp knife were the only garlic press needed by any man or woman. All the while, he’d sliced and diced and soaked half a loaf of bread in broth, and sautéed tomatoes until the pungent scent filled the apartment.

He went way past fine. He slid right into exquisite, extraordinary and exceptional. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he was…something else? Like, not a prostitute?

“Would you seriously consider calling my friend Dr. Garron about the job at the Ritz?” she asked, lifting her glass.

“I told you, I’ll call tomorrow.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Can I be your boyfriend then?”

She choked so hard the chianti went up her nose.

“I’m gonna take that as a no.”

Wiping her mouth, she laughed. “I don’t want a boyfriend.”

“You sure? I cook.”

“I see that. I
smell
that.”

“Wait’ll you taste that.”

She smiled, wrapping her fingers around the stem and setting her chin on the wide rim of the goblet. “But woman cannot live by food alone.”

“I do other stuff.”

A shudder twisted through her. “Yeah.”

His shoulders dropped just a little, a gesture she couldn’t miss in the fitted black T-shirt. She let her eyes roam over the V shape of his back, the perfect male roundness of his rear, the long, muscular legs. Her boyfriend. Now there was a thought. “Wouldn’t you like to have a different job?”

He set a spoon on the counter and turned from the sizzling pan, his look as intense as the aroma of bay leaves and basil. “What a person does or did in his profession doesn’t dictate who they are.”

His eyes were dark with something she couldn’t name. Oh, yeah she could. Shame. The impact wrenched her heart, and she pushed her response way back down. He was salvageable, this fine man. Redeemable.

Oh, what was she doing? “You know, I have way too much to think about,” she said quickly, “to worry about your business.”

“Yep, you do.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking of the fear in Vivian’s face and the sound of someone hitting Ashley.

Whores must die.

“Let’s start figuring it out,” he suggested. “Together.”

She leaned back on the stool, surprised by how much she wanted him to help her, and believed that he could. “Okay. Square one. The suicide. If it
was
a suicide.”

“You don’t think those index cards full of insecurities sort of confirm that?” he asked, finally picking up his glass of wine for a sip. He turned from the stove, the drink suspended. “Or the fact that she had an abortion.”

“Maybe Glenda just said that to torture me.”

He frowned over the glass as he drank. “She’s a sicko, then. But you need to find out if Keisha really had an abortion. It’s a starting place.”

“I don’t think information like that is readily available to the public.”

He regarded her for a minute, then turned back to the sizzling tomatoes. “I might be able to pull some strings and get some information.”

He didn’t see her dubious look. The guy was so sweet. Helpful, nurturing, except for that gun he whipped out on special occasions. She didn’t want to tell him she doubted that he could get the information. For all she knew, he could. “And what about Vivian? Why do you think she’s so defensive?”

A cell phone beeped from his belt and something indefinable changed in his body language. “I’m going to take this,” he said quickly. “Outside.”

She popped off the bar stool. “No need to leave. I’m going to take a shower.”

He gave her an appreciative nod, then answered the phone with a simple “Yo.”

Yo? She slowed her step into the hall, her ears trained on the kitchen. He said nothing for a moment, then, “Can’t really talk now.”

Who was it? A woman? A job? She forced herself to hurry into her room and close the door loudly enough for him to hear, fighting the unfamiliar sensation of jealousy. Was that really what was making her stomach burn? Jealousy over a male prostitute?

Oh,
please
.

She made the shower extra hot, clipping up her hair so she could let the stream pound her back. She still tingled from the heat when she dressed in a cropped tank top and jeans, wet tendrils dripping water down her nape. She brushed on a coat of mascara and followed her nose back to the kitchen, where indescribable aromas wafted, along with Johnny’s low-pitched voice. Her bare feet made no sound on the hardwood floor, so she cleared her throat to announce herself.

“Don’t worry, Lu—” He froze at the sight of her, then gave her a wide, sexy grin. “Except for the electric stove, I could be in love. Catch you later, hon.”

She smiled. It would have been impossible not to. “Who was that?”

“My boss.” At her look, he reached out and curled his fingers around her wrist, drawing her close. “Look how pretty you are, all squeaky clean.”

“You call your boss
hon
?”

“I call lots of women that.” With his left hand, he tucked the phone into his pocket.

“So you work for a woman? A woman runs that company, Fantasy Adventures?” She couldn’t keep the skepticism out of her voice.

“One runs my area,” he said, leaning in and taking a whiff of her hair. “Mmmm. It’s mango season.”

“Did you ask any questions? About Keisha?”

“I did, and I even have them checking on Vivian Masters. I want to know if she was ever a client.” Like it was the most natural thing in the world, he pressed a kiss on her damp neck. “Maybe give us a clue to why she acted so weird.”

For a minute, she couldn’t speak. She just felt the air slide out of her lungs. “You know, you are so nice.”

He nibbled his way to her ear and tickled her lobe with his tongue when he got there. “Does that mean I can be your boyfriend?”

She laughed, sliding one hand around him, letting her breasts press against his chest. “You can be my friend, how’s that?”

His tongue dipped into her ear, sending shock waves down her body. He pulled her tighter, his chest was like carved marble pressing against her. She closed her eyes, tilted her head, and tried to remember to breathe.

“Okay, my friend.” His voice was raspy, close. “Taste this.”

She parted her lips, ready to taste his tongue and temptation again.

Something hot and tangy and juicy slid between her lips. She moaned at the flavor of spice and sweet, the incredible softness that oozed through her mouth. Her eyes popped open. “Oh, what
is
that?”

“Comfort.” A drop dribbled down her chin. He licked it off. “You need some.”

God, did she ever. The fiery tip of his tongue touched the corner of her mouth. She managed to swallow, the mix of flavors and textures dancing in her mouth. She wanted more. More comfort. More taste. More Johnny.

She tipped her head and kissed him like a starving woman.

Chapter
Ten

“W
hoa, easy, hot stuff.” Johnny chuckled into their kiss, tasting the
pomodoro
mixed with a trace of peppery chianti in her mouth. “Comfort food. Not comfort…comfort.”

Her fingers curled around his neck and she molded her body to his, the heat from the stove paling in comparison to what he felt through the achingly thin tank top that boasted of nothing but nipple underneath.

He finally broke the kiss, but not until his hands had found a home on the dip between her lower back and her sweet rear end, and his lower half rose to the occasion.

She opened her eyes wide, her pupils nice and big from arousal. She looked so pretty, he just wanted to kiss her some more. And that was exactly what she expected. Only he’d just hung up the phone with his boss, who had said “protect her,” not “seduce her,” and definitely not “screw her stupid.”

The same boss who had met his question about Alonzo Garron with a long silence and a simple statement: “Johnny, you need to stop asking questions about this assignment and just do it. For me.”

He had to remember where his loyalties lay—with the woman who had saved him from hell. Whatever her reasons, she wanted the client to remain a secret.

He eased away from Sage. “It’s dinnertime, puddin’.”

“Then feed me,
sugarbear
.”

He laughed softly and reluctantly let go of her, but she stayed very close as he grabbed a soup bowl and started to ladle crushed tomatoes, broth, and soaked bread into it.

“I know why you call me those things,” she said, pulling open a drawer. “You can’t remember a woman’s name because there are so many.”

He set the ladle in the pot and closed his hand over her wrist. “No spoons.”

“We drink from the bowls?”

“We use bread. Metal ruins the taste of this soup.” He nodded toward the dining area. “I put a loaf out there.”

She peered over the counter to her little dining-room table. Surprise opened her mouth into a little circle, drawing his attention to the feminine, round, enticing O. “Wow. Place mats, napkins, fresh wine, and candles.”

“And no pesky spoons.” He took the two bowls and jutted his chin toward the kitchen door. “After you.” He deliberately waited a beat before adding, “Sage.”

She gave him a sly smile and led the way to the table. As she spread a napkin on her lap, he put the bowls next to each other, as close to her as he could get.

He broke off a hunk of the crusty bread and handed it to her, then lifted the pepper mill and ground some over hers, then his.

“In Tuscany, foreigners think the locals are sort of classless, scooping their soup up with bread. It’s like seeing someone eat asparagus with their fingers. It’s proper, but seems wrong. Okay, pick out the center of the bread and make a scoop, like this.”

She did, then held the bread poised over the soup. “I’m sure most of this will miss my mouth.”

“That’s half the fun.” He dipped the cup of bread into a chunk of perfectly cooked tomato, enjoying the soft mew of pleasure that accompanied her first bite.

“God, this is really good,” she said, eagerly digging down for another bite. “So who did you say taught you to cook? Your nona? What was her last name?”

Tomato-soaked bread caught in his throat and he worked to swallow. “My grandmother, yeah. Some skills just get passed to the next generation. Like I bet your mother was the one who taught you to write.”

“In a way.”

“You’re very good,” he said with another mental pat for seamless conversation shifting. “I really got into that article about the hospital and all those smarmy docs taking payola from the insurance companies.”

She wiped her mouth with the napkin and reached for more bread. “That’s what my mother taught me to do. Hunt down bad guys and expose them for what they are.”

He felt a little blood drain from his head. “Bad guys? She covered crime?”

“Her beat was business, actually. But she loved nothing more than finding politicians on the take and companies with evil CEOs.”

“Like mother, like daughter, huh?” He sipped the wine and watched the way the candle flickered green glints in her hazel eyes. She didn’t wear any makeup that he could tell, but her skin had an ethereal glow to it…or maybe that kiss had sizzled her blood as much as his. “How old were you when she passed away?”

She studied her soup. “Fourteen.”

“That’s how old I was when my parents were killed.”

“Well,” she said quietly. “Then you know how hard it is.”

He touched her hand. “I didn’t think I could live,” he admitted, giving in to the little black hole in his stomach that always accompanied the memory of having to leave Italy. “What happened to your mother?”

She averted her eyes, studying the soup. “She committed suicide.”

It was his turn to open his mouth into an O of surprise. “Suicide?” he asked with a rasp.

She nodded, and casually reached for another piece of bread. “It was a long time ago. Thirteen years.”

He ached to know what had happened, but all he could process was how she was dealing with her friend’s suicide after thirteen years of living with her mother’s. “You should have told me.”

She tore her bread, obviously struggling to look indifferent. “It doesn’t matter anymore. And if you’re saying that because of Keisha, well—”

“Of course I am. That’s made this really hard on you.”

Her smile was wry. “You sound like my aunt. Only she wasn’t so sympathetic. She basically said, Get over it. Like…like…” She dug the bread into the soup so hard that droplets of sauce splattered on the place mat. “Like that’s possible.”

“Your aunt. Is this your mother’s sister?”

Wiping her mouth, she held up her napkin. “Last person I want to talk about, ever. Let’s get back to the situation at hand, okay?”

“Okay,” he agreed, taking a bite. He certainly had no desire to discuss family.

“Suicide or not, Keisha’s dead,” she said, her voice taking on a calculating quality. “Ashley McCafferty got beaten up after the game, and didn’t want anyone to know about it or help her. Vivian Masters is scared of something, everything. Somebody broke in here and defaced the dancers’ poster, took her computer—”

“But left her bling.”

She nodded. “We found a stash of suicide notes. And Keisha might have had an abortion before she died.” She tapped the table impatiently. “Did I forget anything?”

Just that she had a bodyguard and didn’t know it. Oh, and she thought he worked as a male prostitute. But, if she found out what he’d done in his previous life, prostitution would seem like a ticket to sainthood.

She toyed with the bread, tearing a tiny bit off as she stared into space. “What should I do tomorrow? Start meeting the girls on the list?”

“Why don’t we visit Ashley and see what happened to her yesterday?”

“Good idea. Why don’t
we
?”

“I’d like to go with you.
Sage
.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you mean ‘hot stuff.’ ”

He grinned and leaned closer. “You are hot stuff, you know that?”

She inched forward, her gaze steady. He was starting to recognize that look; she wanted something. Information, usually.

“Now tell me about your nona,” she said. “Didn’t you say she had a different last name? Was this your mother’s mother? Is that who raised you after your parents died?”

He had a couple of choices. Lie. Accidentally knock his wineglass over. Go for another subject change. Or…

“I’m done eating,” he said, moving closer. “Done talking. Kiss me, baby.”

Sage was getting used to these unexpected lip-locks when he wanted to change the subject. With any other guy, she’d call him on it. With Johnny, she just kissed him back.

His lips were warm from the soup, soft and pliant and incredibly competent. Well, they would be; he was a professional. He cupped her cheek with one hand and tilted her face to get into the kiss. God, she loved that move. His fingers were so commanding and sexy, as in control of the kiss as his mouth and tongue.

“So, who’s dessert?” she whispered against his mouth.

“I have cannolis,” he said. “Only we have to fill them with cream.”

“Oh.” She slipped her tongue into his mouth, traced his lips, and gave in to the shivers of arousal that cascaded from her lips down her breasts through her tummy and landed right between her legs. “Cream.”

“It can get kind of messy, but…” He pushed his chair back slowly, standing up and dragging her with him. “It’s worth it. Come with me.”

There was no thought of arguing. Her body pretty much waved the white flag at
cream
and
messy
. “Let’s go.”

She half expected him to head straight down the hall to her bedroom, but he stopped at the kitchen and finally broke the kiss. She leaned against the doorjamb because her legs were getting more and more useless with each minute.

“Where do you keep the mixing bowls?” he asked.

“Mixing bowls?” Was he serious about cannolis? “Um, in that cabinet. What are you mixing again?”

“The filling,” he said, opening the door and pulling out a blue ceramic bowl. “This is perfect.” He opened the refrigerator and started lining the counter with a package of cheese and some oranges. “Damn, I forgot curaçao. You don’t happen to…” He glanced at her. “Never mind. It’s optional.”

“You’re making this from scratch?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, if you’re in a huge hurry…” His lips curled in a smile like he knew exactly how depraved she was. And liked it. “I could use an electric mixer to speed things up, I guess.”

“You say that as though I suggested we get Happy Meals at McDonalds.”

He laughed. “I like to work with my hands, that’s all.”

“And you do it so well.”

He gave her a sexy, knowing wink as she scooted up onto the counter and watched him smash ricotta cheese with a sure hand and her wooden spoon. He placed the bowl next to her, then opened the bag of confectioners’ sugar he’d bought earlier.

Powdered sugar sprinkled on his fingers as he worked, whitening the fine black hairs near his wrist. He squeezed the life out of an orange, and a lock of hair fell toward his eye. He lifted the remnants of the orange to her mouth and she sucked, practically melting off the counter as he whipped up a concoction of cheese and sugar and fruit.

She closed her fingers over his wrist. “Hey, Johnny-cakes.”

He chuckled at that. “Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“For dessert?”

“For the company. And for the comfort.”

“My pleasure.” He kissed her nose. “Sugar.”

He found a small plastic bag, filled it with the sweet-smelling cream, then made a makeshift pastry bag by cutting a little hole in the bottom corner. Mesmerized, she just watched, getting hungrier and achier and weaker by the second.

“Here you go.” He twisted the end and held the bag out to her.

“Me?” She inched back. “I don’t know how.”

“It’s easy. Italian kids can do this before they’re three. My sister could do ten to my one and she…” His voice trailed off as if something strangled him.

“You have a sister?”

He offered the bag again. “Yeah. Here.”

“Are you close? Is she older or younger?”

She saw the roped muscles in his neck grow taut, then relax. It happened so fast, she almost missed it as he turned to open the oven and pulled out a tray of curled, golden pasty shells.

“Younger,” he finally said, staring at the pastries as though he’d never seen one before. As though he’d completely lost track of what he was doing.

“What’s her name?” Sage asked.

She got a blank look in response.

“Your sister?” she prodded. “What’s her name?”

Without answering, he reached for a pastry shell from the tray, picked it up, then dropped it, swearing softly and brushing his fingers as though he’d burned them. He gingerly grasped the edge of a shell, lifted, and blew on it a few times. “Here you go.”

The reporter in her went on alert. Why was he being so damn evasive? “What’s her name?” she asked again.

The playfulness evaporated from those near-black eyes. “Bella.”

Oh, of course. Her heart dipped in disappointment. He didn’t want to get personal. It was like the hooker in
Pretty Woman
, who wouldn’t kiss on the lips. He had his limits. Fun, games, food, and sex. No talking about family.

For some reason, that made her ache in a whole different way.

He positioned himself in front of her, holding the shell out. With one touch of his hip to her knee, he nudged her legs wider so he could get closer to her on the counter. “So, blondie, you want to interview me some more, or cream some cannolis?”

She didn’t want to interview him. She didn’t want to pry into his private life, or know his sister’s name, or need his brand of comfort so damn much. She didn’t want this ache in her chest. The only ache she wanted from him was much farther south and far less vulnerable. She didn’t want anything, but what he offered.

“Cream.”

“Good choice,” he said, coming in closer. “Just slide that tip right there in the hole.”

She managed not to roll her eyes at the obvious double entendre, and got the corner of the bag into the cannoli he held.

“Now squeeze. Not too hard, baby, just slow and gentle and easy. There you go.” A steady stream of sweet, white goo seeped from the half-inch hole he’d cut, oozing into the cannoli and wafting scents of vanilla and orange and cinnamon.

“That smells so good,” she said.

“Mmm. Wait’ll you taste it.” He gave her a smoldering look. “It’s like a little orgasm for the mouth.”

Her whole body sort of…liquefied. “Oh.”

With the sexiest half smile she’d ever seen, he lifted the filled cannoli toward her lips. “Here, sweetheart. The squeezer gets to lick the extra. Nona’s rules.”

She could slide right off the counter, she was so boneless and weak. He inched the pastry closer. She opened her mouth, and he stared at it, placing the creamy end to her lips. She licked a hunk of filling, groaning slowly as the mind-numbing sweetness and indescribable smoothness spread through her.

“If that’s what you can do to my mouth…” She opened her eyes. “I don’t even want to
think
about what you can do to the rest of me.”