J.P.’s back was to her. Her Colt was leveled at the stretch of white broadcloth between his shoulder blades.
She caught her breath.
He sensed her, turned in time to see the gun drop to her knee.
He held up his hands, one of which held a bouquet of snapdragons. “May I request a last meal with a beautiful woman?”
She was trembling.
She had almost killed the only man she would never consider killing.
She was furious with him. What the hell was he doing here?
She wanted to drive him off, tell him to go the hell away. Right now she was as dangerous as a downed power line. Murder danced in her nervous system.
J.P. smiled.
How could he look at her like that?
Here she was with her bare wet feet, her grungy work clothes, her bloodshot eyes and her runny nose, ambushing him with a goddamn. 45-and he was looking at her like she was the best thing he’d ever seen.
“I could’ve killed you,” she said.
“I was thinking Italian.”
She rose, took a shaky breath, and let the gun fall uselessly to her side. “If the last meal is that good, honey, I suppose I’ve got to share it.”
According to the radio, half the West Side was underwater. Woodlawn Lake had overflowed, manhole covers burst open, storm drains exploded into geysers. Hundreds of residents were stranded on rooftops. Four teenagers had disappeared, sucked into the current while trying to body-surf a drainage ditch.
Even the affluent North Side had not been spared. Right down the street from J.P.’s chosen restaurant, at the corner of Basse, an elderly couple’s Cadillac had turned into an underwater coffin. Erainya could see the police lights flickering through the treetops.
But you could tell none of that from the crowd at Paesano’s. The parking lot gleamed with eighty-thousand- dollar cars. Inside, the elite of San Antonio packed the dining room, laughing and talking without concern, the air infused with oregano and expensive cologne.
J.P. made everyone’s face light up as he walked through the room.
“Dr. Sanchez!”
Surgeons, trial lawyers, politicians rose from their tables to shake his hand. J.P. introduced Erainya, though it was clear none of them cared about her. J.P.’s arm around her waist, his complete deference toward her, seemed to irritate his acquaintances.
J.P. politely cut short each conversation, declining their offers for a drink.
“You must excuse me,” he told them. “When I am with Miss Manos, my time becomes very valuable.”
Erainya loved him. She loved the way his friends’ mouths hung open, the way their wives stared after her as they wrung their diamond bracelets.
J.P. had managed to reserve the restaurant’s best table-a corner spot with windows overlooking the golf course and, across Basse, the man-made canyon that had once been the Alamo Cement Quarry. She could just make out J.P.’s house, there on the far rim of the canyon, its windows bright with buttery light.
Erainya wondered if this was a subtle invitation, eating dinner within sight of his bedroom. But no-she would think that way. J.P. wouldn’t.
Last night he had comforted her so patiently, asked no questions, expected nothing in return. He had completely understood when she wanted to sleep next to Jem, so they ended up camping out in his living room, all three of them-down sleeping bags on his plush carpet, bowls of popcorn, flashlights, Yu-Gi-Oh! DVDs instead of ghost stories. All night, Erainya lay awake, listening to the easy breathing of her child and her lover, and pondering how she would kill Will Stirman.
J.P. ordered dinner-shrimp Paesano, Parmesan salad, fettuccine Alfredo. He waved aside the wine list and ordered a magnum of ’97 Brunello di Montalcino, not making a big deal out of it, but Erainya knew the vintage would cost more than she earned in a week. She’d made a point of learning about wine since she’d started dating J.P.
The bottle arrived. He declined a taste test, sent away the waiter, and poured Erainya a generous glass as if it were Kool-Aid or Strawberry Ripple. “So did you get Jem settled?”
“I suppose. He loves this lady… Maia Lee.”
“Tres’ girlfriend.”
“Yeah.”
J.P. placed his hand on hers. “If I had to pick one eight-year-old to watch my back in a fight, I’d pick Jem. He’ll be fine.”
She managed a smile. A small knot of worry was twisting in her throat. Jem had never spent the night away from her-at least not since he was very small, before she’d taken permanent custody of him. Baby-sitters, sleepovers… she couldn’t deal with them. She’d never been able to shake the fear that he would disappear somehow, leave her life as suddenly as he’d entered it.
J.P. seemed to understand how she felt. He knew what a serious emergency it would take for her to send Jem out of town. But still he had asked no questions. He just made himself available, in case she needed him.
She realized that was why he’d shown up on her doorstep tonight, despite her refusal. He knew she shouldn’t be alone.
“Hey,” he said gently. “I thought you liked shrimp.”
She looked down. Appetizers had appeared and she hadn’t even noticed.
“I haven’t been fair to you,” she said. “I’ve haven’t explained anything.”
“We agreed not to talk about our jobs. I’m sure you don’t want to hear about the sinuses I cleared today.”
“Sinuses won’t kill you.”
“I don’t know. There was this big nasty one-”
“I’m serious, J.P.”
“You don’t have to explain anything,” he said. “I trust you. If you don’t tell me, you have a good reason.”
She wanted to cry. She knew so much about him. Once she’d realized she might actually love this man, she’d run a complete background check. She knew all about his school days, his career, his wife, who had died in childbirth twenty years ago and whose name he had never so much as mentioned. J.P. had never remarried. He’d devoted his life to raising his daughter, who had just recently graduated from college. Except for the one horrendous tragedy of his wife’s death, the man had no secrets, no enemies, no skeletons in the closet.
Erainya’s closet, on the other hand, was loaded. There was so much she couldn’t tell him.
It was easier to concentrate on the wine and the shrimp Paesano.
The sky darkened. Traffic on Basse subsided to an occasional streak of headlights, the rattlesnake sizzle of tires on wet asphalt.
J.P. twirled his fork in the fettuccine. “Have you told Tres our plans?”
Their plans.
“I haven’t said anything,” she admitted. “Not yet.”
He kept his attention carefully focused on achieving the perfect bite-sized forkful of pasta.
“I’ll tell him soon,” she said.
“Only if it’s still what you want.”
He tried to sound casual, but she heard the fragility in his voice. He had opened himself up for emotional hurt, for the first time since his wife’s death. The fact that Erainya had so much power over him scared her.
They had agreed to get married in the fall. She would quit working, close the agency. He would provide for her and Jem. He had more money than they would ever need.
Did she really want this?
She only had to look at J.P. to know the answer was yes. No one had ever loved her so much. And the sex… well, she’d almost consigned herself to a life of celibacy until J.P. came along. The sex was fantastic.
At first, she had resisted the idea of quitting work. She told herself she needed the job. It was part of her
