A Guilty Affair (12 page)

Riley stiffened. “I see.” She couldn't keep the hurt from her voice.

Leona's expression softened with regret. “No, hon, you
don't
see. I couldn't call or write you back because it was too painful for me. You were—
are
—a constant reminder of my son and everything I lost when he died. You were such a big part of his life, Riley. I couldn't think of you without thinking of him, and well, that just wasn't good for me. I hope you can understand that.”

Riley swallowed a hard lump that rose up in her throat. “I think I can, Ms. Simmons,” she said quietly. After all, it was the same reason she herself had fled from San Antonio—to escape the memories.

An odd light suddenly filled Leona's eyes. “Can you understand?” she pressed, a hint of bitterness lacing her words. “Can you
really?
”

Without meaning to, Riley took an instinctive step backward. “I should probably go. My grandmother—”

“There's so much you can't begin to understand,” Leona murmured wearily, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. “If you only knew what I've been through these past three years. A mother should never have to bury her own child. Especially when that child—” She broke off abruptly with a mournful shake of her head.

Riley waited, not daring to breathe, willing the woman to finish what she'd started to say.

But when those green eyes met hers they were clear once again, if not slightly embarrassed. “Don't mind me, hon. The doctor's got me on these new antidepressants. They mess with my concentration at times. Either that, or I'm finally getting old,” she joked lamely.

Riley smiled, but it fell as flat as Leona's failed attempt at humor.

Leona wagged a reproachful finger at her. “Don't you go worrying about me, Riley Kane. I can see the concern in your eyes, but it's not necessary. I told you I'm fine.” She glanced at her slim gold wristwatch. “Listen, I'd better run. Tell your family I said hello, and if you happen to see Noah, tell him hey for me.”

“I will,” Riley promised softly.

But as she stood there watching Trevor's mother climb into a cherry-red Mustang convertible—a car that some would argue was inappropriate for a sixty-year-old woman—a chill ran through her, twisting and coiling in the bottom of her stomach.

Because Riley knew with unerring certainty that Leona Simmons was
not
fine. And what ailed the woman went deeper than grief.

What ailed Trevor's mother was the burden of a terrible secret.

With a Cuban cigar clamped firmly between his teeth, Noah leaned over the pool table, positioned the tip of his cue stick, and took aim at his next target. In a matter of a few effortless strokes, he ran the table, the final ball rolling into the pocket with a satisfying
clack
.

He straightened slowly and reached for the Heineken sweating on a corner of the table next to two other empty bottles. He removed the unlit cigar from his mouth to take a swig of beer. He had just enough of a buzz to ensure he'd sleep soundly and dreamlessly through the night—the dreamless part being the most important.

Since Riley's return to San Antonio, he'd dreamed about her every damn night. When he awakened that morning reaching for her in his bed, he knew something had to be done. The only problem was, he didn't know what. He couldn't exactly force her to go back to Washington, D.C. This was her home-town; she had as much right to be here as he did. And because she'd been doing such a great job at the office, he couldn't fire her, not without providing a rational explanation to Kenneth and Janie.

The only way he could get rid of Riley was to give her what she wanted. A private investigation into Trevor's shooting.

And that wasn't going to happen.

Some way, somehow, he had to make the dreams stop and get the woman out of his system once and for all—without losing his soul in the process.

From the big-screen television behind him, highlights from the NBA finals blared on ESPN, competing with the bluesy strains of John Coltrane pouring from an elaborate stereo system. Noah knew it was wrong to taint Trane's masterpieces with sports news, but he found a certain amount of comfort in the cacophony of sounds. It drowned out the noise in his own head.

As he racked the balls on the table to play another game, the doorbell rang.

Removing the cigar from his mouth, Noah glanced at the clock on the wall. It was after ten o'clock. He wasn't expecting any visitors, so who could be ringing his doorbell at this time of night?

Beer in hand, he left the game room and went to answer the door. When he saw Riley standing on the other side, he wondered if she was a figment of his tortured imagination. Had he finally gone over the deep end?

She didn't speak for a prolonged moment, half-confirming his suspicion that she was an illusion, as beautiful as the real thing in a black tank top and a white skirt, one of those long, flouncy skirts that made her look like an exotic Gypsy. She wore a pair of ankle-wrap wedge sandals he wouldn't have cared for on any other woman's feet but Riley's. Even her toes were beautiful, the nails painted a deep, sexy shade of red.

He leaned on the doorjamb and deliberately allowed his eyes to slide down her body before easing back up to her face like a long, languid caress. When she shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another, he felt a twinge of wicked satisfaction.

Let her suffer a little discomfort, he thought. It was nothing compared to the hell he'd been going through for the past five years.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” he drawled sardonically.

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, and he forced himself not to follow the gesture with hungry eyes. “I need to talk to you.”

“It's after ten o'clock,” he said flatly.

“I know. It couldn't wait.” She paused. “May I come in?”

He took a lazy swig of beer, looking at her from underneath his lashes. Without releasing her gaze, he slowly lowered the bottle and wiped moisture from his bottom lip. “It's after ten o'clock.”

Those fallen-angel eyes turned imploring. “Please, Noah?”

He hesitated, then reluctantly stepped aside to let her enter, leaving just enough room that she had to squeeze past him. Big mistake. As her bare shoulder brushed against his chest, the warmth of her skin penetrated the thin cotton layer of his T-shirt to sear his flesh.

He stifled a groan. He'd always been a glutton for punishment where she was concerned.

Glancing back at him, she said, “I hope I didn't catch you at a bad time?”

“That's never stopped you before,” he muttered under his breath, his back to her as he closed the door and threw the dead bolt.

She didn't hear him, or pretended not to. “Where's Eskimo?” she asked, glancing around expectantly.

“Spending the week at my mother's while she keeps the twins. They always ask for Eskimo.”

Her lips quirked in a smile. “And you're kind enough to share him. What a wonderful uncle you are.”

He shrugged. “I'm going to be out late doing surveillance most of this week, anyway. Would you like something to drink?”

“Sure.” She nodded toward the half-empty bottle in his hand. “I'll have what you're having.”

“Coming right up,” he said.

She trailed him to the kitchen, murmuring her thanks as he opened a cold bottle of Heineken and passed it to her. “Can we sit in the living room and talk?”

He didn't want to talk. He had a fairly good idea what was on her mind, and he didn't want to discuss it. “Actually,” he said, heading out of the kitchen and down the hall, “I was in the middle of playing pool.”

She had no choice but to follow him to the game room, where he walked over to the pool table and picked up his cue stick, fully intending to resume his game.

Stepping further into the large room, Riley swept a casual glance around, taking in the oversize black leather sofa, electronic dartboard on the wall, autographed posters and other sports memorabilia. Every woman who'd ever stepped foot in the game room declared that it was a bachelor's domain through and through. Depending on who the female in question was, he either took the remark as a compliment or complaint.

He watched Riley out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge her reaction. The last time she'd been to his house—before the previous Saturday—was for Trevor's surprise birthday party four years ago. Noah had been in the process of transitioning from an apartment and hadn't furnished the game room yet.

After lingering over an autographed San Antonio Spurs basketball in a glass cabinet, Riley wandered over to the pool table, idly running her hand along the rails as she approached.

“I always wanted to learn how to play,” she murmured, watching as he skillfully sank the two-ball into the corner pocket.

“Why didn't you?” he asked, rounding the table to take the next shot.

She shrugged, sipping her beer. “Trevor was going to teach me, but…he never got around to it.”

Hearing the melancholy in her voice, Noah glanced up. Before he could respond, she walked over to the television, picked up the remote control and punched it off.

He scowled at her. “I was watching that.”

“No you weren't,” she said matter-of-factly. “Besides, I couldn't hear Coltrane.”

“You like Coltrane?”

She shot him a do-you-even-have-to-ask look. “Of course. Who doesn't?”

“Plenty of people. Trevor didn't.”

“Yeah, well, his taste in music was…different.” She paused, considering for a moment. “He had excellent taste in movies though.”

Noah met her gaze, his mouth twitching. “Which one?”

“Um…well…”

Noah pretended to look thoughtful. “Never heard of that one before. What was it about?”

Riley laughed, then clapped a hand to her mouth, like a child who'd been caught giggling while the teacher's back was turned.

Noah chuckled softly. “It's all right. Trevor and I didn't share the same taste in music or movies, either.”
Too bad the same didn't apply to our taste in women
.

Dark eyes glittering with mirth, Riley walked back over to the pool table. “He used to make me watch these awful B-movies with him, movies I'd never even heard of before. With titles like—”

“Terror in Toyland?”

“Yes!” Riley cried, grinning. “We watched that movie so many times I could recite all the cheesy lines after a while. And what made it even worse was that I found myself remembering certain lines at the most inopportune moments. Like sitting in the middle of an important meeting—”

“Or interrogating a suspect,” Noah wryly admitted.

“Oh my God!” Riley burst into laughter, and it was such a warm, infectious sound that Noah couldn't help but laugh as well.

Minutes later they were still chuckling quietly, calmly, their eyes lingering over each other as they were transported back in time, each reliving their own special moments with Trevor.

“I miss him,” Riley said softly.

“Yeah,” Noah murmured, “me, too.”

They gazed at each other for another moment before Noah looked away, returning his attention to the pool table. As he leaned over to take the next shot, Riley said casually, “Maybe you could teach me how to play pool.”

He hit the cue ball hard, sending it flying off the table and thudding across the floor.

Riley laughed. “Or maybe not.”

Noah went to retrieve the ball, grumbling, “You're messing with my concentration, woman.”

“You?” Riley snorted in disbelief. “I didn't think that was possible. Trevor used to brag about what a pool shark you were. He said all the other cops called you a hustler, the kingpin of the Sunday Night Pool Sharks.”

“I don't know about all that,” Noah muttered.

She laughed. “Oh, don't be so modest, Noah. Come on, show me that move Trevor used to talk about. What was it called? The mace…mass…”

“Massé,” Noah supplied.

Riley snapped her fingers. “That's it. The massé. Some sort of complicated technique where you make the cue ball follow a curved path. He told me it takes a lot of skill and concentration, and you were one of the few players he'd ever known who could do it on a consistent basis. So let me see it, Noah. Come on. Please?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I'm not in the mood for showing off.”

“You're not showing off if someone asks you to do it. And I'm not just asking—I'm
begging
. Come on, Noah.”

He shook his head again. “If you wanna see it done,” he said, arranging balls on the table, “you can watch it on the Internet. There are dozens of Web sites that show clips of the massé and other pool moves.”