Like No One Else (19 page)

Paulo leaned back in his chair, a slow, lazy smile curving his mouth. “So you want us to be friends?”

“Yes.”

“Friends…with benefits?”

Tommie laughed, a low, throaty purr that shot straight to his groin. Eyes glowing with feline seduction, she brought her lips close to his ear and murmured silkily, “If you play your cards right, I'm sure something can be arranged.”

Paulo's mouth went dry.

Before he could find his voice, she rose from the table with their empty plates and sashayed from the room, leaving him with the absolute certainty that she'd come to his apartment that night for one purpose and one purpose only: to drive him completely out of his mind.

Oh, she was good. Damned good.

But he was better.

If Tommie Purnell wanted to play games, she'd learn soon enough that she wasn't ready for the majors. Because one way or another, Paulo intended to win.

He would have the last laugh.

Even if it killed him.

 

While Tommie cleared the table and put away the food, Paulo made the promised phone calls. When he'd finished, he found his guest standing in the living room, her back to him as she studied an oil painting he'd received from Daniela as a housewarming gift.

Paulo walked over to the sofa and sat down. “I spoke to the detective assigned to Kadeem's case,” he said.

Tommie turned to look at him expectantly.

“His name's Roberto Mendiola. Turns out we worked vice together several years ago back in San Antonio. He assured me that they're doing everything they can to find Chauncey Booker, and they've got a few solid leads they're following up on. I told him the family would appreciate hearing from him, so he gave me his word he'd call them as soon as he got off the phone with me.”

“Thank you so much, Paulo,” Tommie said, smiling warmly as she crossed the living room to join him on the sofa. “Zhane and his family will be very grateful for your help.”

Paulo shrugged off her gratitude. “It's no big deal. What good is knowing a cop if you can't call in a favor every now and then?”

“I'll definitely remember that the next time I need to get out of paying a speeding ticket.”

They grinned at each other.

Glancing away, Paulo reached for the remote control and turned on the television, though he wasn't particularly interested in watching it. He needed a distraction from Tommie's tantalizing nearness on the sofa, the teasing scent of her perfume, the shapeliness of her thighs as she settled back against the sofa cushions and crossed her long legs.

“There's nothing good on at this time of night,” she pointed out, a hint of amusement in her voice as she watched him channel-surfing. As if she knew he was only looking for a diversion.

But she was right, of course. Even with a vast array of cable programming to choose from, there was nothing worth watching at this hour of the night. Paulo finally settled on ESPN, where a sportscaster was rattling off the day's scores while highlights flashed across the screen.

“Do you watch a lot of TV?” Tommie asked conversationally.

“Not really,” Paulo answered. “I'm not home very much. Whenever I am here, I mostly use it for background noise.”

“Me, too. When I lived in New York, I forgot I even had a television.”

He sent her an amused sidelong glance. “Because you were always out partying?”

“Pretty much. Or on the road.” She smiled. “There are, however, a couple of shows that I always enjoy watching.”

Paulo grinned. “Let me guess. One of them is
Dancing with the Stars
.”

Tommie laughed, playfully slapping his shoulder. “Just because I'm a dancer doesn't automatically mean I love
Dancing with the Stars
! That's like me saying you love
Law & Order
just because you're a detective.”

“Depends on which series you're talking about. If you mean
SVU
, then yeah, I like the show.”

“I bet you only watch it to ogle Mariska Hargitay.”

Paulo grinned wolfishly. “I sure as hell wouldn't mind having a partner who looks like her.”

Tommie rolled her eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”

“You shouldn't be. So tell the truth,” Paulo prodded teasingly. “You love
Dancing with the Stars
, don't you?”

“I still say you're stereotyping—”

“
Ay Dios
, woman! Yes or no?”

She heaved an exasperated breath. “Fine! Yes, I enjoy watching the show. I try not to miss any episodes. There. Are you satisfied?”

Paulo chuckled, resting one booted foot on the coffee table. “I love being right about you.”

Tommie snorted. “Oh, please. It wasn't a stretch for you to assume that I'd like
Dancing with the Stars
. If you really want to impress me, tell me something about myself you couldn't possibly have known unless I told you.”

Amused, Paulo shook his head at her. “There you go again, issuing another challenge I won't be able to resist.”

“Go ahead,” she goaded him, her flashing dark eyes daring him to take the bait. “Impress me.”

He held her gaze for a long moment, then shook his head with a soft chuckle. “As tempting as the offer sounds, I'm not touching that one with an eighty-foot pole.”

“Why not?”

“Because anything I say will backfire on me. It's a lose-lose proposition.”

“Chicken,” she taunted.

Paulo laughed. “Nice try, but reverse psychology doesn't work on me. Neither does name-calling.”

Tommie stuck her tongue out at him.

A wicked grin swept across his face. “Don't poke that thing out at me unless you're prepared to use it in ways you never intended.”

As her tongue quickly retreated and a hot flush bloomed on her cheeks, Paulo laughed. It amused and fascinated him to know that he could make her blush, this siren who was at ease with her sensuality as he was with a gun, this temptress who could bring grown men to their knees with just one sultry look.

Still, as dangerous as she was, Paulo enjoyed being with her. He didn't want her to leave, and was glad she seemed in no hurry to.

Laying her head on the back of the sofa, Tommie smiled whimsically at him. “Tell me more about yourself, Paulo.”

He instinctively tensed. Enjoying her company was one thing. Baring his soul to her was out of the question. “What do you want to know?” he asked carefully.

“Anything. The usual things.”

“Such as?”

“I don't know,” she said, sounding mildly exasperated. “What part of San Antonio are you from? Where did you go to school? What do your parents do? What's your family like?”

Paulo felt the tension subside from his body. The questions she'd asked were harmless enough. “I grew up on the south side,” he answered. “Working-class neighborhood, taco shack on every corner. My father was an electrician. My mom worked as a seamstress, housekeeper, receptionist—whatever paid the bills. Neither of them went to college, but they were proud, hardworking people who never asked for any handouts, and sometimes refused when help was offered. My siblings and I—I have two brothers and two sisters—never lacked for anything. We wore hand-me-downs and didn't get to eat out much, but everyone we knew was in the same boat, so we never really felt like we were deprived. Well,” he amended with a wry chuckle, “except when I used to visit Rafe every summer in Houston.
Then
I'd realize just how much my family didn't have. A big house, closets full of new clothes, two cars, money to spend on nice vacations. And Rafe had something in particular I'd always wanted but could never have—his very own room.”

Tommie smiled sympathetically. “Were you ever jealous or resentful of him?”

“Jealous, definitely. Resentful? No way.”

“Really? Not even a little?”

Paulo shook his head. “Anyone who knows Rafe Santiago knows it's impossible to resent him. We were like brothers, two peas in a pod. He never made me feel like the poor relation from the barrio. He was generous to a fault, shared everything with me without making a big production out of it.”

Tommie smiled softly. “I really admire your relationship with him.”

“I'm grateful for it,” Paulo admitted.

“Just how are you two related again?”

“Our grandparents were half siblings. Rafe's paternal grandfather was Ramon Santiago. Your father is an archaeologist, so he may have heard of him. Ramon was a famous professor and historian who was always being interviewed for films and documentaries. He also wrote award-winning books about San Antonio's history and culture.”

“He sounds like quite an impressive man,” Tommie murmured.

“He was. Growing up, I was in awe of him. We all were. Well, except my grandmother Maria,” Paulo added, chuckling dryly. “To her, Ramon was just her big brother. And as brilliant as he was, I'm sure even
he
did some things that got on her nerves.”

“I'm sure,” Tommie agreed, smiling.

“But she adored him, make no mistake about it. He was her favorite brother. When he left home to attend college in Mexico City, she missed him like crazy. She was devastated when the family eventually disowned him for marrying a black woman, even though Abuelita Maria didn't agree with his decision, either. She couldn't understand why he hadn't returned to Oaxaca and married someone from their village, like he was supposed to. So when the rest of the family refused to accept Ramon's bride—Rafe's grandmother—Abuelita Maria went along with them, even though she was dying inside.”

“That's a shame,” Tommie said, her voice edged with anger and impatience. “Why can't people be free to love whomever they want, regardless of race, income level, or social status?”

“They can,” Paulo said with a wry grimace. “They just have to be prepared to deal with the consequences—good or bad. But that was a different time, different culture. What Rafe's grandfather did was practically unheard of.”

Tommie's eyes narrowed on his face. “Are you defending your family's decision to disown him?”

“Not at all,” Paulo said unequivocally. “I think what they did was terrible. It caused a rift between the families that would be felt for generations, even after Rafe's grandmother was eventually welcomed into the fold.”

“How did that come about?”

“They came to their senses after Rafe's father, Ignacio, was born.” A sardonic smile tugged at his lips. “In our family, nothing brokers peace faster than the birth of a son. But like I said, by then the damage had already been done. You can't unring a bell. Although Ramon eventually forgave the family for disowning him, he never really got over the way his wife had been treated. It put a strain on his relationship with everyone, including my grandmother. And because he stopped visiting Oaxaca as often as he used to, Ignacio and his siblings grew up feeling somewhat alienated from their father's side of the family.”

“So how did you and Rafe ever become so close?” Tommie asked, absorbing every word of his tale with an expression of rapt fascination. Paulo couldn't remember the last time, if ever, a woman had taken such a keen interest in learning about him or his background. He didn't know what to make of it, didn't know whether to be pleased or unnerved.

Remembering that she'd asked him a question, he said, “Despite everything that had happened in the past, Ramon always had a soft spot in his heart for my grandmother. Years later when she followed him to San Antonio—and everyone knows she did—Ramon reached out to her and her husband. He helped them get set up with jobs and a place to live. And when they started having children, he tried to at least bring the two families—his and theirs—together. Growing up, Rafe and I spent almost as many summers at his grandfather's ranch as we did in Houston.”

Tommie smiled. “It's a beautiful ranch,” she said, adding wryly, “Frankie and Sebastien are over there so much that I've started calling it their second home. And my nephew loves it there, too. He goes horseback riding and swimming every day with Kaia and Little Ramon.”

“I have a lot of fond memories of the ranch,” Paulo said, idly wondering when his fingers had worked their way into the thick, silken strands of her hair fanned out across the back of the sofa. And was it just his imagination, or were they sitting closer to each other than before?

“Are your grandparents still alive?” Tommie asked.

“My grandmother is. My grandfather passed away a long time ago. But it was only after Ramon died that Abuelita Maria decided to return to Oaxaca.”

“So he
was
the reason she came to San Antonio.” Tommie sighed deeply. “How touching.”