door, and the moment he threw the dead bolt, I was pulling on the lapels of his overcoat, insisting his mouth cover mine.
That was the extent of the preliminaries. There was no need for more. We’d had a month of them already. It was finally time to get on with it.
Mike groaned and pulled me closer; then my feet were off the ground, but not by a few inches; this time my legs were swept fully off the planet. He carried me across his living room, where I failed to notice much—not the parquet floor or the high ceiling, not the lack of rugs, pictures, or furniture. All I remembered about our short trip was Mike’s hungry kisses, my racing heart, and the slight bump of the man’s shoe as it impatiently kicked at a half- closed door.
Now we were inside Mike’s bedroom: a chest of drawers, a wooden nightstand, a small table piled high with books and papers, and, just as promised, a nice, big, king-sized bed. The frame was no-frills. There wasn’t even a headboard, but the sheets were soft and clean, and the thick, new comforter was the color of sky.
He laid me down gently, resting my back against a heavenly cloud, and then things weren’t so gentle anymore. I tore at Mike’s overcoat, jerking it off. Next came the sport jacket, the tie. When I reached to unbutton his dress shirt, he stilled my fingers. He took care in removing his shoulder holster, wrapping the leather straps around his service weapon, resting it on the nightstand.
The shirt came off next. I lightly touched his heavy muscles, softly kissed some old scars. Mike swallowed hard, pushed me back against the pillows, wasted no more time separating me from my clothes. When he saw the nasty purple bruises on my upper arms, he stopped.
“My God, Clare. Was this from tonight?”
I shook my head. “When Joy was arrested. Lippert’s men…”
He quietly swore, pressed his lips to the hurt, and then we were both completely naked, stripped down until there was nothing more that could come between us.
The only thing left to take off was the exquisite string of emeralds around my neck. I moved my hands to undo the clasp. Mike stopped me, capturing my wrists and bringing them together above my head. His gaze moved slowly over my bared curves, taking me in for the first time. I held my breath, self-conscious for an instant, until his shining eyes met mine.
“So beautiful…” he whispered.
I smiled, and so did he. Then Mike and I were finally together, and for the next few hours, the rest of the world went away.
Twenty-Five
The sound of ringing woke me. For a moment, I thought it was an alarm clock, and then I realized it was the bedside phone. There was movement next to me on the mattress, and that’s when I remembered—
I opened my eyes. He was there, beside me. His spartan bedroom was bathed in morning light, the sun rays pouring in through the half-closed miniblinds.
“Hello?” his deep voice murmured.
I was about to answer when I realized Mike was talking into the phone receiver. His long arm had allowed him to grab it off the nightstand without even sitting up.
“No. It’s okay. I asked you to…” he said to the unknown caller. “What did you get?”
I started to sit up off the pillows; Mike instantly pulled me back down. His free arm wrapped around me, urged me close against his long, strong form.
“Uh-huh…and?”
I tucked my head into the crook of his shoulder, rested my hand on his bare chest. Mike’s body was solid, the muscles well-defined. There were scars here, and I lightly outlined an angry-looking slash—a knife wound was my guess. Then I touched some healed incisions from surgeries, which looked like entry points from multiple gunshot wounds.
Mike’s free hand stopped stroking my hair. His fingers moved lower, to the nape of my neck. His massaging was sweet and leisurely, his finger pads slightly calloused, a texture that made me purr.
Mike shifted slightly, cleared his throat. “Go on. I’m listening…”
I pressed my lips where my hands had just been. Mike took in sharp breaths of air, feeling my mouth on his skin. Then his free hand moved down my body on a mission to mess with my focus, too.
“Okay,” he finally said. “I’ll be in later.”
He punched the Off button and tossed the phone away. The call may have ended, but Mike’s touching was just beginning.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“Who cares,” he growled.
I was wide awake now, but getting up wasn’t an option. It would be well over an hour before the man would let me out of his bed.
“So…” Mike said as I poured him a cup of coffee, “do you remember that phone call I got?”
“Phone call? What phone call? That was over an hour ago. So much has happened since.”
Mike laughed. He was sitting at the cheap card table in his kitchen; four creaky folding chairs completed the less-than-elegant set. The kitchen itself was new and clean with faux marble counters, a full-sized fridge, and a good gas range. As I expected, the larder was spare, but he did have a coffeemaker, a small grinder, and some of my Village Blend beans. It was gratifying to see I’d had some influence on the man, after all.
In the fridge were bottles of a good Mexican beer, a few limes, a carton of half-and-half, Chinese mustard, and one egg.
While Mike showered, I’d thrown on one of his T-shirts, made us the coffee, and rifled a cardboard box I’d found sitting on the counter. Someone had written
Mrs. Quinn was now living on an estate on Long Island with the Wall Street whiz whom she intended to marry. I figured she had no use for these things from her old kitchen, and the movers delivered them here with Mike’s clothes and the few other items in the place—obviously very few.
I dug out a cardboard container of cornmeal, a small sack of flour, some baking powder, and sugar, stirred them together with the egg, the half-and-half, and a bit of oil. I poured the batter in a square pan and baked it at 400. The timer was set for twenty, but Mike was out of the shower in twelve.
Now he was sitting across from me at the table in gray sweats and a faded blue T-shirt, his feet were bare, and his dark blond hair looked even darker now that it was wet and slicked back against his squareish head.
I wanted to kiss him again.
It took a few gulps of hot coffee to
“…and I need to talk to you about it,” he was saying.
“Huh?”
“The phone call, sweetheart.”
“The call. Right. Was it serious?”
“It was a colleague calling with some news.” He leaned forward in his folding chair. “Billy Benedetto’s your prime suspect in Keitel’s murder, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, this man named ‘Simon,’ who hit on you in Flux and then
“Wait. You’re telling me that Benedetto was running the May-September gang?”
