Deeply, Desperately (4 page)

I was holding out serious hope that it was only a matter of time, when Sean said, "Then I guess I'll just have to try harder."

I was about to make a saucy comment about not needing it to be any harder, when he swooped in for a kiss that had me wriggling out of my coat, trying to undo the buttons on his shirt, and completely forgetting any definition of SLOW my brain might have stored away.

Sean's hand slid up under the hem of my sweater,
his fingers glancing over my stomach and cupping my breast.

Hot. Seriously hot in here.

I unwrapped my scarf, started peeling Sean's shirt down his arms.

His hand circled to my back and, with a flick, my bra was undone.

A voice in my head was screaming to stop, stop, stop, but it was quickly quieted by my libido shoving a rag in its mouth, duct-taping it for safe measure, and sticking the now muffled voice into a closet at the back of my head.

Finally. Maybe my wish would come true!

"Ahem."

The voice barely registered. "Ahem!"

Sean slowly dragged his lips away from mine. We both turned.

Sam Donahue was leaning against the kitchen door frame, smirking. Funny, but he looked nothing like Sean with his light brown hair and dark blue eyes. The only thing they had in common was their height. Both stood just shy of six feet. "You've heard the phrase 'get a room'?"

Sean tugged down my sweater before turning his attention to his buttons. I picked up my coat from the floor and caught a glance of myself in the mirror. Beyond the fuss and muss of our almost-rendezvous, I couldn't help but notice my eyes. And the disappointment in them.

Sean said, "Aren't you supposed to be in court?"

"You wish," Sam answered.

I
certainly did. Sam had no idea how much.

"Case was dismissed," he added, turning away. "I'll, ah, be in my office. Not that you two will need me."

As soon as he was out of earshot, Sean said, "So close."

I tried to keep the disappointment at bay. "Try, try again?"

He pushed a hand through his hair. "Doesn't it always feel like something's trying to keep us apart?"

"It's the Curse," I reminded him. I'd told him all about it after we started dating. He was one of the few who knew all the Valentine secrets.

"Honestly? I hadn't really believed you."

"And now?"

"I'm starting to believe."

"Welcome to my world." I reached around my back and fastened my bra. I swore I could hear that little voice in my head laughing in triumph.

"How was the meeting this morning?" he asked, tucking his shirt into his pants.

I bit back a sigh of longing when I spotted the trickle of hair leading from his belly button down below his waistband. "Good." I forced myself to look away. "Well, mostly. Preston
was
there." I filled him in. "The antiques shop where I saw the ring is in Falmouth. I'll make a trip down there tomorrow. You free?" Thursdays were usually quiet at both of our offices.

"I'll make some time."

I was suddenly thinking of all the quaint inns on
the Cape and how we could make a whole day--and night--out of the trip. Maybe a long weekend.

"Preston's not going, is she?" he asked, leading the way to his office.

"No." Hell no. My brow wrinkled.

"What?"

I sat in one of the two chairs in front of his pristine desk. "Something Preston said earlier is bothering me. Or didn't say, really." I told him all about Leo's comment about us being related, and Preston's strange reaction. "You don't think we look alike, do you?"

"No."

"I don't think so either." I wouldn't so much as consider the idea that we might be related somehow--too dangerous to my mental health. I needed to change the subject ASAP. "I need to borrow some toys."

He blinked, then a slow smile spread across his face. "What kind of toys?"

"Investi--Wait." My eyes widened. "What kind of toys are you talking about?"

"Oh, I don't know. Some things should be very closely guarded."

"Very, very secretive of you, Mr. Donahue."

"There are ways," he said, his voice husky, "of getting the information out of me."

The voice in my head had clearly busted out of the closet because it was screaming at me to get a grip. I cleared my throat. "I'll definitely keep that in mind. I'm in need of toys of the investigative variety. Cameras, video recorders, bugs, wires, night vision goggles. Those sorts of things."

"Toys?" He was offended.

"What would you call them?"

"Equipment."

"Ah. So noted. Can I borrow your equipment?"

"Why?"

"Marisol."

"That's all you're giving me?"

"That should explain it all." I glanced at my watch, reluctantly stood. "Can I pick up the
equipment
in the morning?"

"I'll see what I can find."

I didn't dare go around the desk and kiss him good-bye. I only had ten minutes before a meeting with a potential client.

And what I had in mind with Sean would take much longer than ten minutes.

As I headed back downstairs, I suddenly remembered the call he'd gotten and realized that maybe I was easily distracted after all.

"She's dead." Detective Lieutenant Aiden Holliday shoved an expandable file folder across my father's kitchen island. His usual Marine-like shorn blond hair had grown out into something resembling a Chia Pet. His blue eyes were bloodshot. Scraggly reddish-blond stubble covered his cheeks, his chin. He looked as though he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in a week.

The "she" in question was Sarah Loehman. "If this is a homicide case, then why come to me? I only work with missing persons." I released the elastic around the folder's clasp and peeked inside at the thick mass of papers.

Raphael was stirring a giant pot of cacciatore and pretending not to eavesdrop. I knew him better than that.

Marisol and Em were supposed to meet me here in twenty minutes for our once-weekly dinner. How Marisol and I were going to keep our mid-afternoon snooping from Em I didn't know. I just hoped I wouldn't accidentally blurt out something. Like the fact that Joseph had a box of condoms hidden behind
the washcloths or a comment on the new sexual artwork. Those sorts of revelations could be a bit awkward to explain.

Raphael set a plate of steaming linguine smothered in cacciatore in front of Aiden, who glanced up. "But--"

"Don't bother to argue." I handed him a napkin. "Just say thanks."

I'd finally reached Aiden after meeting with my last client of the day. He had a case he wanted me to look at and, as he happened to be going to a Celtics game tonight, I asked him to meet me here before tip-off.

"Th-anks," Aiden said, still bewildered. He cautiously picked up a fork. Raphael nodded, silently urging him to dig in.

I took a second to admire the stunning view beyond the floor-to-ceiling living room windows. Under bright moonlight, Boston Harbor swayed, small crests crashing atop each other, bright white smudges in a sea of black. Along the opposite shore lights twinkled.

My father had moved to this penthouse in the exclusive Waterfront District when he and my mother separated, twenty-five years ago. It was as much a home-away-from-home to me as my mother's place in Cohasset.

Aiden said, "Aren't you eating, Lucy?"

"In a little bit. Go ahead without me."

"Wine?" Raphael asked, poised to pour into the long-stemmed glass that he'd just set on the counter.

Aiden said, "Thanks."

Obviously a fast learner.

"My pleasure." Raphael retrieved another glass, poured Pichon Lalande to the rim. He slid it in front of me.

He knew me well too.

"Technically the case is missing persons," Aiden clarified between bites, picking up our conversation. He pointed with his fork at the plate of cacciatore. "This is really good."

Raphael beamed with pride and turned to wipe down a counter.

I flipped through the papers in the file while Aiden ate. "Why technically?"

"Scott Loehman's a cop. He knows the ins and outs of law enforcement. He knows how to cover his tracks."

"Why don't you start from the beginning?" I asked, nursing my wine. A dull ache pulsated behind my right temple. It had been a long day.

He twirled his fork, dragging linguine through a river of sauce. "Sarah Loehman, age twenty-one, disappeared from her middle-class Rockland home on June twenty-second, two years ago. Her kids, one and three, were at a neighbor's house. When the kids were to be dropped off, no one was home."

I pulled a picture of Sarah from the file. Short dark hair framed her face. Brown eyes with long inky lashes dominated her features, and a pout pulled at the corners of her lips. She landed somewhere in between cute and beautiful. A smile could easily push her over to stunning.

I vaguely remembered the case--young missing
mothers tended to dominate the news. Throw in a cop as a husband, and the media sank their eyeteeth into the story. Her abandoned car had been found in a CVS parking lot, her purse inside, her wallet missing. Theories of robbery or carjacking abounded, but nothing ever came of them.

Essentially, she'd disappeared without a trace.

Her husband Scott had been named a person of interest in the disappearance, but due to a lack of evidence and no body, charges had never been filed.

"Is he still a cop?" I asked.

Aiden swirled his wine. "Yeah. Was put on paid leave when she disappeared but the department had to let him back on the streets eventually."

"Did he have an alibi for when she disappeared?"

"Said he was boating with some friends. Time frame is fuzzy. Nothing could ever be nailed down a hundred percent."

"How did Scott take the news that she'd disappeared?"

These questions were merely formalities. I didn't need background on the case; all I needed was to touch the palm of someone who'd given Sarah a gift that she might still have on her--or on her skeleton. However, I liked to know the history before I signed on.

"Big, fat crocodile tears, the cradle robber. She was only eighteen when they married."

"How old was he?"

"Twenty-four."

A plane descended into view, coming in for a landing at Logan. "You think he did it."

He didn't disagree. "There were whispers that the kids had been abused. A bruise here, a broken arm there. Nothing ever substantiated."

"And he currently has custody?"

"Like I said, nothing was proven. Nothing the courts could do, even though Sarah's mother fought for the kids." His lips twisted into a frown. "Scott's being careful now, the perfect dad."

"Raphael!" My father's voice preceded him down the stairs. "These damn cuff links. Oh," he said, stopping short. "I didn't know we already had company."

Oscar Valentine was nothing if not debonair, and tonight he fit the role to a T. Dark Armani suit, pristine white shirt, silk tie. Dark brown eyes, dark hair. Strong chin, chiseled cheeks, full lips. He was like something off a 1940s movie poster.

It wasn't too long ago that he'd had a heart attack, but tonight he showed no signs of lingering health problems. He looked smooth, suave, sophisticated. Like always.

He kissed my cheeks. Aiden rose and held out a hand. My father looked at him for a long moment while he shook. I knew that look. My father was making a match.

I held out my hand for the cuff links. Dad placed them in my palm. "When will the girls be arriving?" he asked.

"Five minutes."

"Girls?" Aiden asked.

I pushed the cuff link through the slit in my father's cuff. "Marisol and Em are coming for dinner."

"I didn't know." Aiden pushed away his empty plate.

I hadn't wanted to tell him. I knew how he felt about Em and had hoped he'd be gone before she arrived.

"Have you met the girls?" my father asked him, an arch to his left eyebrow.

"A few times," Aiden said. He'd turned a pale shade of red.

To take the pressure off, I asked my dad, "Where are you off to tonight all gussied up?"

"L'Espalier."

"Ooh, la, la. With Mum?" I already knew the answer, but I liked to watch him squirm once in a while.

He adjusted his tie. "Er, no."

"Anyone I know?"

His face darkened. "No. No one you know."

"You're being quite mysterious."

"And you're being nosy."

I flinched at his tone. It was unlike him to be so curt, so hard.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm just a little ... stressed."

I wondered if "stressed" was a euphemism for something else, like, oh, randy. One didn't go to L'Espalier without romance on the mind. He had been behaving himself lately, ever since the media storm, but I imagined all that celibacy could cause a little stress.

I should know.

But ... there was something in his face, a pinch that had me worried. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Fabulous," he said, the pinch gone just as fast as it had appeared.

"Did you at least get a private room?" I asked,
recalling the field day the local papers had had after my father had a heart attack on a Marblehead beach--sans pants and with a woman who wasn't my mother. The King of Love having an affair? It trumped all other news. If the media had an inkling that he was back on the prowl ... I didn't even want to see those headlines or how they might affect the family business. As far as the public knew, my parents were happily married, and though there were stories of infidelity, there were still those foolish enough not to believe them.

"Lucy Juliet."

His tone was lighter. More like I was used to.

He straightened the cuff of his jacket. "That's none of your business."

"I beg to differ."

"Impertinence. You get that from your mother."

"Of course I do."

According to my father, all my bad qualities came from my mother.

Raphael chuckled.

My father scowled at him.

It only made Raphael laugh harder. "Refill?" he asked me.

I nodded and he poured.

"Have you seen my billfold, Raphael?" my father asked.

"No, but I'll help look." Raphael set the wine bottle in front of me (I loved that man) and followed my father upstairs.