When he tensed, she got the impression that he was just as uncomfortable with physical contact as she was. In a flash of intuition, she realized that his interest in women wasn’t strictly sexual. He didn’t want to touch her-he wanted to hurt her.
“You remind me of someone,” he said, his gaze wandering over her face, the movement discernable through the dark lenses that hid his eyes. She wondered if the glasses were an affectation, a disguise, or if he was simply sensitive to light, after years on the ocean.
Sonny batted her lashes. “Sophia Loren?”
“No,” he said, his mind far away, remembering, chasing, searching…“Anita.”
Her stomach did a slow somersault.
“Anita Vasquez. You look just like her. Enough to be her daughter.” Suffused with memories, he continued, “Damn, what a woman. Liked to get roughed up almost as much as she liked to fuck.”
Sonny clenched her hand into a fist. She wanted to kick his ass into a blubbering mass of leathery skin and tobacco breath. Instead, she relaxed her fingers and raised them to his face. “
He grew instantly wary. “I don’t kiss whores.”
“No, no. Just look. You are very handsome.”
He shrugged, liking the attention, probably intent on reliving some long-forgotten memories of her mother. If he only knew.
She lifted his sunglasses and stared into pale blue eyes, just like her own.
James stood over the prone body of their father. Arlen was sprawled on the dirty carpet, unconscious, covered with broken pieces of ceramic lamp. “What the hell? He didn’t even do anything. You can’t arrest him now.”
Breathing hard, blood still pumping adrenaline, she looked up at James, wondering if he understood what had happened. Why she’d freaked out.
“What?” he asked, noticing her perusal.
She shook her head, trying to clear it. Sonny felt as though she’d just had her own brains knocked around. “Which way to his bedroom?”
James led her back to the master suite. It was a real shithole. Swastikas and Confederate flags hung on the walls, there were empty bottles all over the place, and hardcore pornography magazines littered every surface.
“Nice,” she said, kicking a dingy pair of briefs out of the way.
James laughed, all but brimming with nervous energy. Then he got quiet. “He’s not going to wake up, is he?”
“Probably not until morning. You might get a day off out of it, bud.”
He stayed quiet while she rifled through Arlen’s meager belongings. “I don’t think I should be around tomorrow.”
“That’s probably wise,” she said, cursing herself for losing control. Physically attacking a suspect before any evidence had been gathered was a grievous error. Not only had she put James in danger, she may have compromised the investigation.
What the hell was wrong with her lately? She’d never let her emotions get in the way of work before. “Does your dad keep mementoes?”
“Like what?”
“Jewelry, panties, women’s stuff?”
James shrugged. “No. He always gives them a little something to remember him by, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Bruises.”
Sonny thought about the trace evidence found on the victims. Like surfers, fishermen used durable, water- resistant fabric. “Do you guys wear titanium-lined gear on the water?”
James snorted. “Titanium’s expensive. I’m lucky to get a pair of regular gloves.”
She found of lot of disgusting things, some mildly illegal, none incriminating Arlen as the SoCal Strangler. He was an abuser of women and children, a racist, a cheat, and an evil man. But there was no evidence in his bedroom linking him to the murders.
Although she had no choice but to move on, Sonny was reluctant to leave James to his own devices. The kid was a disaster waiting to happen, and who could blame him? “Why don’t you go to your brother’s,” she suggested. “Is it cool there?”
James nodded silently, and she knew he was shielding the truth behind his pretty blue eyes, the way she’d been doing most of her life. He reminded her so much of herself that she almost couldn’t bear to look at him. Like her own reflection in the mirror, his angst was heart-wrenching to witness.
Together, they cleaned up the broken lamp and put Arlen to bed. Then she took James to Stephen’s, because he had nowhere else to go. Several times on the drive over, she came very close to telling him who she was.
In the end, she remained silent, cursing her job, hating herself.
CHAPTER 12
Ben couldn’t sleep. What he’d said to Summer was killing him, keeping him awake, taking hold of his continence and ripping it to shreds.
Feeling like a bastard, and a fool, he dragged himself out of bed. After pulling on some clothes, he walked across the street to her apartment and knocked on her door. There was a light on inside, and he wondered if she was in there with another man. Her boss, maybe.
He gave himself a mental shake, knowing he had no cause to be jealous.
When she opened the door, she looked different. She let him in, her expression wary and her hair dark. Not a shiny, rich obsidian, like Carly’s, but opaque black, sooty and lusterless.
“What did you do to your hair?” he asked, appalled.
She raised a hand to her head. “I dyed it.”
“It looks terrible.”
Her blue eyes narrowed. “Are you here to insult me?”
“No,” he said, darting a glance around the room, more nervous than ever. Was he screwing this up on purpose? “I wanted to talk to you. To apologize.”
“Just leave,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t want to hear it.”
It hadn’t occurred to him that she would shoot him down before he’d made his play. “I’ll tell you what happened with Lisette,” he said, unease welling up within him.
“I don’t want to know, Ben. Don’t you get it? It’s too late. I don’t care.” She jerked her chin toward the door. “Now get out.”
“She came into my room,” he said, in a rush to convince her. “I was asleep. I didn’t know what was going on-”
“Yeah, right,” she said, her sarcastic tone belying the assertion that she didn’t care.
“I was dreaming about you,” he continued, following her as she stormed down the hall toward the back bedroom. “I’d been thinking about you all day.”
“Oh, God,” she cried, whirling to face him and thrusting her fingers into her coal-black hair. “You are so full of shit! Do you think I’ll forgive you because you thought about me while you fucked her?”
“No. I mean, I didn’t. When I realized she wasn’t you, I pushed her away.”
She paced the room a few times, considering his words. Then she stopped and faced him. “I don’t care,” she repeated, crushing him with her apathy.
His stomach clenched with regret. He hadn’t felt anything but a mild stirring for a woman since Olivia. The prospect of getting involved in a serious relationship terrified him, but he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her like this.
“I care,” he said, laying his cards on the table.
She stared at him in angry disbelief.
