Triple Time (2 page)

With his money, he could have a fully staffed maternity ward on set if he wanted to. And she had no doubt he would if shooting on his latest Trent Savage pic went longer than expected. She'd never seen a couple as devoted to each other as Nick and Holly. It was almost enough to make her forget what a fucking farce love could be.

Almost.

They lapsed back into silence. Devin focused on the blurred buildings speeding by outside the grimy window. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't ignore Gabe, sitting only inches away. His thigh brushing hers when he shifted. The scent of his cologne—citrusy, with a hint of cedar—teasing her senses.

Majorly pathetic.

“Can I ask you something?” His words tumbled out, like he was afraid if he didn't say them at light speed, they wouldn't come out at all.

“Uh, sure.” She turned to him with a shrug. “I guess so.”

“Would you say I'm...” He raked a hand through his close-cropped, chestnut hair. “Do you think I'm, well, boring?”

Devin almost choked. Boring? Seriously? Of all the words in the English language, boring was just about the last one she'd choose to describe Gabe Nelson. A little straitlaced, maybe. Serious. Panty-meltingly hot. But boring?

Hell, no.

She opened her mouth to answer but Gabe waved her off. “Never mind. Your hesitation speaks volumes.”

His shoulders stiffened and he turned his back to her to stare out his window.

Shit.
What was it about this guy that always made her say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing? It was as if she was a tongue-tied teenage girl with a crush on her best friend's hunky, totally hands-off younger brother.

Which was exactly what she was. Except for the teenage part.

Before she could figure out a way to straighten him out while salvaging her pride, they pulled up outside her apartment building and Gabe hopped out of the cab, holding the door for her.

“Keep the meter running,” he instructed the cabbie. “I'll be right back.”

She brushed past him, ignoring his outstretched hand, and he followed her up the steps to the main door.

“Thanks,” she said, digging in her purse for her key. Where the hell was it? All she wanted was to get inside, change into sweats, scarf down a pint of Ben & Jerry's Coffee Toffee Bar Crunch and forget this whole humiliating night. “Look, about what you asked earlier, in the cab. You're not boring. A little repressed, maybe.”

“Repressed?”

“You know. Old-fashioned. Conservative.”

She let out a yelp as Gabe spun her around, pressing her against the door with his hips. “How's this for conservative?”

“This” was his hands on her shoulders, his lips crushing hers. After a moment of shock, her body responded to him. Her purse slipped from her fingers, her keys forgotten, and her arms came up to circle his neck. Her hands tangled in his hair, holding him tight. Her lips parted and he didn't waste any time in taking advantage, stealing his tongue into the opening and sweeping it across her lower lip.

Hot flipping damn
. She was right about those lips of his. She could kiss them for hours. Days, even. And that naughty tongue...

She mentally struck straightlaced off her list of adjectives for him.

Not to be outdone, she met him lick for lick, running her tongue over his teeth and into the corners of his mouth. With a moan, he nudged her legs apart with his knee and moved between them. She could feel his rock-hard thigh pressing against her core.

She was ready to hook one leg around his hip and grind against him like a stripper on a pole when he broke off the kiss as abruptly as he'd started it.

“Christ, Devin, I'm...”

She pushed against his chest, resisting the temptation to grab his designer shirt in her fists and pull him back to her. “If you say you're sorry, I'll...”

He backed away, thrusting his hands in his pockets. “Knee my balls right through the roof of my goddamned mouth?”

“Something like that.”

“Then I'll just say good-night.” One corner of his mouth curled into a half smile. “And sweet dreams.”

She slumped against the door, needing something to keep her vertical, as he climbed into the cab and drove away. Only when the taillights disappeared from view did she let herself slink to the ground, fumbling for her purse in disbelief.

Dudley Do-Right had done what no man had done before.

He'd left her wanting more.

 

2

“H
EY
, N
ELSON
. B
OSS
wants to see you.”

“In a sec.” Gabe's fingers flew over the keyboard, his eyes never straying from the computer screen. “I'm almost done with this motion.”

“Boss says now.”

Gabe looked up at his second-in-command, Jack Kentfield. “What gives?”

Jack lifted a shoulder. “Who knows? But you're wanted on the seventh floor ASAP.”

“Great.” Gabe hit Save, closed the document and pushed away from his desk. Being summoned to the penthouse could only mean one of two things. Either he'd screwed up and was going to have his ass handed to him or he'd pleased the powers that be and was getting a commendation.

He wasn't in the mood for either.

“Good luck,” Jack called after him as he headed for the elevator. “If you're not back in ten I'll send up a search party. Or start a memorial fund.”

“Make sure you hit up Tim in elder abuse.” The elevator doors opened and Gabe stepped in. “He owes me twenty bucks.”

The doors slid shut, leaving Gabe alone to wonder which fate awaited him upstairs. He couldn't think of anything he'd done to warrant an ass reaming. Although, to be honest, his mind hadn't totally been on his work since that night with Devin in the park last week. And on her doorstep.

Their kiss had been nothing short of explosive. Way more intense than anything he'd experienced before. He prided himself on his control. His ability to think before acting. All that had gone the way of the cassette tape when Devin surrendered to him, her soft lips parting under his, her full, warm curves molding to him.

A stirring below his belt buckle made him shake his head and silently scold himself.
Down, boy. Big meeting coming up. Think clean thoughts. Mom. Apple pie. A busload of nuns on their way to a prayer meeting.

Gabe squeezed his eyes shut. He'd been a selfish, impulsive bastard to kiss her, but at least one good thing had come of it. Now he understood why Kara's rejection had left him more numb than hurt. He'd been an idiot, proposing to her for all the wrong reasons. Thinking he could choose a life mate based on shared interests and political expediency. Thinking passion would come later and build slowly, like a roller coaster climbing that first hill.

It wouldn't. And it wouldn't have been fair to her. Or him.

With a
ding
, the elevator doors opened and Gabe stepped into the inner sanctum of Manhattan District Attorney Thaddeus Holcomb. Teddy to his friends. Mr. Holcomb to his underlings at One Hogan Place.

“Gabe.” Doris, Mr. Holcomb's secretary from what seemed like the dawn of time, beckoned him closer with a wrinkled finger. “He's waiting for you.”

She ushered him into an office three times the size of his own. Instead of a regulation-issue gunmetal gray desk like Gabe's, the current district attorney sat behind a massive oak table. Matching bookshelves lined the walls, bright blue statute books and thick legal treatises artfully arranged alongside plaques, trophies and the occasional family photo.

“You wanted to see me?” Gabe took a seat in one of the two leather armchairs in front of the table.

Holcomb closed the file he'd been reading. “Nice work on Patterson. Convincing Judge Morrison to let in the defendant's statement.”

“Thanks.” Gabe relaxed into the soft leather. Looked like it was going to be door number two.

“Any word on sentencing?”

“It's scheduled for next Thursday.”

“Good. Keep me posted.”

Holcomb cleared his throat. Gabe steeled himself. Now came the real reason for their little tête-à-tête. Holcomb pushed the file across the table. “The police made an arrest in the Park Avenue homicide case last night.”

Gabe nodded. It'd been all over the morning news. A handyman was accused of sexually assaulting and murdering an eighty-five-year-old woman and her live-in nurse. A witness saw him leaving their apartment shortly before the bodies were discovered. “He'll be arraigned tomorrow. Kentfield's handling it.”

Holcomb shook his head. “I want you on this case. It's a publicity magnet.”

Gabe folded his arms across his chest and frowned. Jack might be a bit of a prick, but he could handle the press as well as anyone. There had to be more to this than the boss was letting on. “What aren't you telling me?”

“Nothing.” Holcomb shrugged, his innocent expression making Gabe even more convinced the DA had a secret agenda. “You're my best prosecutor. You're taking this one. End of story.”

Gabe picked up the file and stood. He knew when to press his luck and when to walk away. “No problem.”

“I'm not done yet.” Holcomb motioned for Gabe to sit back down, so he did. “There's another matter we have to discuss.”

“Is there a problem?” Gabe's frown deepened.

“I understand you're thinking about running for this position when I retire next year.”

“Yes, sir.” Running for public office was the next logical step in Gabe's career plan. First district attorney, then the state legislature and maybe even Congress. He figured he'd have to wait a few years before starting down that road. But Holcomb's announcement that he wouldn't run for a third term had sped up Gabe's timeline a bit.

“I expect you'll want my endorsement.”

“I was hoping.” Holcomb just admitted Gabe was his best prosecutor. That had to count for something.

“You're an excellent lawyer, Gabe. The youngest man ever to head Special Victims.” Holcomb tilted his chair back, and Gabe's heart rate kicked up a notch. This was it. Holcomb was going to give him his thumbs up. And with his backing, Gabe would be the front runner for DA.

“But I can't endorse you.”

Wait, what?

The “thank you” he'd been about to utter stuck in his throat. Gabe barely suppressed a cough. “I don't understand.”

“There's more to being district attorney than trying cases.” Holcomb crossed one ankle over his knee. “You're the face of the division. The people's representative.”

“And you don't think I'm ready for that?”

Holcomb twisted the gold signet ring he always wore on his right pinkie finger. “I don't think the people of Manhattan are ready for you.”

“What's that mean?” Gabe rubbed the back of his neck. He'd been crusading for justice ever since fourth grade, when he'd begged to be appointed hall monitor so he could help stop the bullying that went on behind the teachers' backs. Now the feeling of his well-orchestrated future slipping away washed over him like fog. Cold. Damp. Foreboding.

“Let me put it to you this way.” Holcomb tented his fingers under his chin. “Remember the grand opening of the Family Justice Center?”

Gabe shuddered.

As if he could forget it.

The ceremony had been the one and only time Holcomb had asked Gabe to stand in for him. And it was a disaster from beginning to end. All his courtroom skills had deserted him. He'd flubbed the deputy mayor's name, accidentally insulted the governor's wife and dropped the cartoonishly large scissors trying to cut the damned ribbon.

But that wasn't even the worst of it. No, the worst came later, at the reception, where he had to mix and mingle. Make small talk. Be charming.

He'd tried. But the harder he did, the more awkward the conversations became. He was about as charming as a cardboard box. He'd ended up leaving early, claiming he had to prepare for a trial the next day.

He could face a panel of black-robed Supreme Court justices. A jury of his peers. But put him in a room and make him talk to strangers one-on-one?

Crash and burn.

“Stick to your comfort zone.” Holcomb spun his chair around to reach for something on the credenza behind him, dismissing Gabe. “Shaking hands and kissing babies isn't your forte. And it's a job requirement for district attorney.”

“I can learn,” Gabe insisted. “Give me a chance.”

Holcomb twirled back around to face him, considering him through narrowed eyes. “Tell you what. The Feast of San Gennaro is in a few weeks.”

“Right.” Everyone knew that. The Italian street fair was one of New York City's biggest and most popular events.

“I make a point to attend every year. Come with me, prove you can fit in with the crowd, and I'll reconsider.”

“Fit in?”

“Meet people. Talk to them. Show me you can convince them to vote for you.”

“It's a deal.”

Gabe rose, and Holcomb followed suit, extending his hand. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” He was going to need it. Because he had less than a month to learn how to “fit in” with the masses who populated the festival. And no freaking clue how he was going to do it.

* * *

“N
OT
IN
SERVICE
my ass.” Devin punched the End Call button on her cell phone.

Her boss and mentor, Leo Zambrano, looked up from the triceps he was tattooing and smirked. “You realize you're talking to an automated message, right?”

“That low-life, rat bastard PI's disconnected his phone.” She circled her station at Ink the Heights, the Washington Heights tattoo parlor where she'd worked since she was eighteen and Leo had caught her camped out in the storeroom. Instead of the boot, he gave her an apprenticeship, and he put up with her even on days like today. It was a damned good thing her next customer was running late. In this mood, she might accidentally stab him with a needle.

“The one Manny referred you to?” Leo wiped a spot of blood from his customer's arm with a paper towel and studied his handiwork. The dark outline of a phoenix rising from the rubble of the Twin Towers stood out against Hector's olive skin. “His cousin's friend's sister's boyfriend, or something?”

“Yep. The jackass totally screwed me. Took my thousand-dollar retainer, told me he was on the trail of a hot lead then disappeared.” She paced between her station and Leo's, needing some way to work off her anxiety short of tipping over the autoclave and dumping sterile instruments all over the floor.

“Can't Manny track him down?” Their errand boy knew everything about everyone in the Heights.

Devin shook her head. “He tried. Says the guy dumped his cousin's friend's whatever three days ago and hopped a plane to Miami. Probably his first stop on his way to San Juan. How am I going to find Victor now? All I hit on my own was dead ends. And I can't afford to pay anyone else. Hell, it took me months to scrape up that thousand.”

She balled her hands into fists. It wasn't just the money that got to her, although losing a grand sucked big time. It was that for the first time in years she'd felt like she was getting close to finding her brother, only to have that hope snatched away, leaving her empty, depressed and mad as hell at the snatcher.

Then there was the article she'd read a few weeks ago in the
Times
about a group home for mentally disabled adults in the Bronx that was shut down after reporters for one of the local news programs found residents being verbally abused, pushed, kicked, starved and even spat on. What if Victor was in a place like that? “I swear, if that little pissant shows his face in this neighborhood again I'll...”

“Kick him in the balls?” Leo smirked and went back to tattooing. “Like you did to Fast Fingers Freddie?”

“Worse. More like rip them off and shove them down his lying throat.”

“I could loan you—”

“No.” She stopped pacing to stare him down. “I'm not taking your money. Haven't you rescued me enough?”

“You're the one bailing me out these days. You're good. Better than good. I keep expecting you to toss me for one of those fancy places near your apartment downtown.”

She shrugged. “What can I say? I have a fondness for aging
bobos
with a hero complex.”

“And I'm partial to smart-mouthed
muchachas
who insist on doing things their own way.” Leo set down his needle, took another swipe at the tattoo with the paper towel, and covered it with a bandage. “That's it for today, Hector. We'll start on the shading next week. Same time.”

“Thanks, man.” Hector flung a few bills onto the counter on his way out. “See you in seven.”

Leo peeled off his gloves, threw them into the trash can reserved for medical waste and crossed to the Keurig machine on the other side of the room. He held up a K-Cup. “Want one?”

“No, thanks.” Devin checked the clock above the sink. Three twenty-five. Almost half an hour past her client's appointment time. Probably another case of cold feet. “I'm wound up enough already.”

Leo shrugged and started his cup brewing. “So you won't take my money. What's next? The police?”

Devin choked out a laugh. “What's the point? The scumbag's long gone, and the cops aren't going to chase after him for a measly thousand bucks.”

“How about Holly's brother?” The machine stopped gurgling, and he removed his mug, taking a long, slow sip of the dark roast. “Doesn't he work for the DA's office?”

“Gabe?” She turned her back to Leo, emptied the autoclave and tossed in a handful of fresh tools to be sterilized, glad for the excuse to hide her reddening face. “What about him?”

“He saved your sorry ass when you ran into him last week. Maybe he can help again.”

Ran into him
. That was a major understatement. But she'd only told Leo that Gabe had found her in Central Park and taken her home. And she wouldn't have even told him that if he hadn't asked about the bruises on her upper arms from where that fuckup Freddie had grabbed her.

“My ass is not sorry, and he did not save it.” She released her hair from its messy ponytail, gathered it up again and secured it with the scrunchie she held in her teeth. “I took care of myself. And Freddie. Mr. Clean didn't know when to leave well enough alone.”