Like No One Else (2 page)

She loved her beautiful, trendy loft situated in the shadow of downtown Houston. When she left behind the bright lights of New York City seven months ago, all she'd wanted was a decent one-bedroom apartment and space to hold dance classes a few days a week. She'd found both in a small, converted warehouse owned by a wealthy real estate investor eager to get the property off his hands before he relocated to another area. By the time Tommie had completed her tour of the dusty old building, she knew it was perfect for her. But the sales price had been way out of her price range. As luck would have it, the seller was a huge fan of ballet, and he'd recognized Tommie from a performance he'd attended in New York the previous year. When she told him about her plan to open a dance studio, he'd generously reduced his asking price, enabling Tommie to qualify for a small business loan. She'd used a large portion of the funds to renovate the building, refurbishing the original hardwood floors and installing a barre, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and a sound system in the studio. Fortunately, the upstairs loft had only needed minor cosmetic work.

Within a month of purchasing the old warehouse, Tommie was comfortably ensconced in her new home and open for business. A glowing feature article in the
Houston Chronicle
had drummed up more clients for her than any amount of advertising she could have done on her own.

She now taught a diverse array of dance techniques including West African, samba, ballet, jazz, tap, modern, and hip-hop. Her clientele included aspiring ballerinas, high school cheerleaders and dance troupes, popular musicians in need of choreography for a new video, as well as local corporations seeking a recreational offsite activity for employees. Tommie knew she'd eventually have to hire additional instructors just to keep up with the increasing demand for her classes. But that was a good problem to have.

Her attraction to Paulo Sanchez, on the other hand, was not.

From the kitchen, Tommie watched as he slowly wandered around the loft before ending up at the wall of windows that offered a scenic view of downtown Houston. Her gaze was drawn to the way his black jeans clung to his powerful thighs and hugged his firm, muscled butt. When her mouth began watering, she knew it had nothing to do with the fragrant aroma of lasagna wafting from the microwave.

Paulo whistled softly through his teeth. “Great view.”

You can say that again!

Aloud Tommie said, “I'm certainly enjoying it.” As Paulo turned, she quickly schooled her features into a blank mask. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Sure. What're you offering?”

Tommie pulled open the stainless-steel Sub-Zero refrigerator and peered inside. “I have bottled water, mineral water, skim milk, orange juice, pineapple juice, and an unopened bottle of merlot. Sorry—no beer.”

Paulo chuckled, starting across the room toward her. “The pineapple stuff sounds good.”

Tommie vaguely remembered him having only one or two drinks at the wedding reception, while most of the other single guys had downed beers as if alcohol were going out of style. Throughout the evening several of those men had hit on her, obviously operating under the misguided assumption that her status as a bridesmaid meant she was desperate enough to go home with any half-drunk loser who propositioned her. It was sadly ironic that the only man she'd wanted to sleep with that night had left with someone else.

Shoving aside the memory, Tommie arched a brow at Paulo as she filled two glasses with pineapple juice. “Not much of a drinker, are you?”

“Not anymore.”

Something about his cryptic response piqued Tommie's curiosity, but she didn't want to pry by asking him to elaborate. Besides, the less she knew about Paulo Sanchez, the easier it would be to keep him at arm's length.

Or so she told herself.

The microwave beeped, signaling that the lasagna had finished heating. As Tommie fixed their plates, Paulo made his way over to the long breakfast counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. He removed his leather jacket and draped it over the back of a bar stool. He wore a black T-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders and showcased his muscular forearms. The butt of a gun was visible from his shoulder holster.

“Do you make a habit of skipping lunch, Detective?” Tommie inquired as she set their steaming plates on the countertop, then rounded the corner to claim one of the high-backed bar stools.

“If I'm swamped with cases,” Paulo answered as he sat down beside her, “food isn't always a top priority.”

“I can understand that,” Tommie conceded. “On my busiest days, I don't even think about eating until my last class is over, which isn't until eight on Tuesday and Thursday evenings.”

Paulo slanted her a wry smile. “Is that why Mrs. Calhoun prepares meals for you? To make sure you don't starve yourself to death?”

Tommie nodded, chuckling ruefully. “She loves to fuss and fret over me. She can't help herself. She raised four children and has nine grandchildren. Nurturing is second nature to her. But I'm not complaining. I've hardly had to cook since I hired her, and quite frankly, she's much better at it than I've ever been.” She watched as Paulo sampled a forkful of lasagna. “How is it?”

“Incredible,” he said, sounding mildly surprised. “Probably the best lasagna I've ever had.”

“Oh God,” Tommie groaned. “Please don't tell Mrs. Calhoun that. You already had her eating out of the palm of your hand after you complimented her piano playing. If you tell her she makes the best lasagna you've ever had, she'll think you walk on water.”

Paulo's straight white teeth flashed in a grin. “Now, now. Don't be jealous.”

Tommie rolled her eyes. “In your dreams, Sanchez.”

He chuckled, taking another bite of lasagna. “So, how are you enjoying Houston so far?”

“I love it,” Tommie said sincerely. “I've got this fabulous loft, my own dance studio. I'm close to the downtown theater district, and I've made a lot of friends at the Houston Met.”

“The dance company?”

Tommie nodded. “I've already been to several performances there. I never realized Houston had such a thriving arts scene. I feel right at home.”

Paulo cocked a brow at her. “You're telling me you don't miss the hustle and bustle of New York, the city that never sleeps?”

“A little,” Tommie admitted quietly. “There's no place on earth like New York City. But Texas is, and always will be, my home.”

“Is that why you left the Big Apple?” Paulo murmured, studying her with those dark, probing eyes that saw way too much. “Because you were homesick?”

Tommie lifted one shoulder and averted her gaze, becoming absorbed in her meal, even as she felt her appetite waning. She didn't want to think about, let alone discuss, the devastating scandal that had derailed her professional dancing career seven months ago. She'd never told anyone what had happened in New York. As close as she and her older sister had become in recent years, not even Frankie knew Tommie's shameful secret. She certainly wasn't about to bare her soul to Paulo Sanchez, a man who was, for all intents and purposes, a stranger to her.

Deciding to turn the tables on him, Tommie ventured casually, “What about you? What made you decide to leave San Antonio?”

Paulo shrugged, returning his attention to his food. “I wanted a change of scenery.”

Tommie's eyes narrowed on his face. Just as before, she sensed that there was a story behind his vague response, and once again, her curiosity was aroused. But the sudden tension in Paulo's broad shoulders and the hardening of his jaw warned her to back off.

So I'm not the only one with secrets.

Oddly comforted by the thought, Tommie said conversationally, “I guess moving to Houston wasn't such a stretch for you. Frankie told me you have family here.”

Paulo nodded. “I used to visit them every summer when I was growing up. My cousin Rafe and I were thick as thieves.”

Tommie smiled whimsically. “Interesting analogy, considering you both grew up to become law enforcement officers. Guess you both decided it was nobler to play cops than robbers.”

Paulo smiled a little. “Never looked at it that way. Rafe always wanted to be an FBI agent. Me? I had a hard enough time just staying out of trouble.”

Tommie widened her eyes in exaggerated disbelief. “
You?
Getting into trouble? No way!”

Paulo chuckled. “Good thing I'm a changed man.”

Tommie snorted rudely. “Yeah, right.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

She gave him a knowing look. “Need I remind you of the compromising position I caught you in at my sister's
wedding
, of all places?”

“Oh. That.” His mouth curved in a wolfish grin. “What can I say? Some people cry at weddings. I prefer to get laid.”

Tommie sputtered indignantly, “Sebastien is one of your best friends! You were a groomsman! Couldn't you at least have waited until
after
the reception before you tended to your libido?”

Paulo's grin widened. “Obviously not.”

Tommie shook her head in disgust. “Pig.”

He threw back his head and laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that did dangerous things to her heart rate. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, wishing for the umpteenth time that he didn't have such a powerful effect on her. He was sexy as hell with his leather jacket, butt-hugging jeans, cocky swagger, and wickedly irreverent attitude. A man like Paulo Sanchez could only bring Tommie heartache, and that was the last thing she needed or wanted in her life.

Paulo draped his arm over the back of her stool and leaned close, his brown eyes glinting with mischief. “Come now, Tomasina,” he murmured, his voice a low, silky caress. “Are you objecting to what you caught me doing at your sister's wedding, or the fact that I wasn't doing it with
you?
”

Tommie stared at him, heat suffusing her cheeks. He knew. The arrogant bastard
knew
that she'd wanted him that day. He knew how humiliated she'd felt when she stumbled upon him with another woman.

Angrily she jerked her gaze away and snapped, “Don't call me Tomasina.”

Paulo chuckled, a satisfied gleam in his eyes as he drew back from her. “My apologies,” he drawled. “You didn't seem to have a problem with Mrs. Calhoun calling you Tomasina.”

She frowned. “That's different.”

“How so?”

“Mrs. Calhoun is old school. She doesn't like nicknames, especially masculine-sounding nicknames for females. And she reminds me a lot of my favorite grandmother, who passed away when I was seventeen.” Tommie shrugged, idly picking at her lasagna. “As far as I'm concerned, Mrs. Calhoun can call me whatever she wants. You, on the other hand, enjoy no such privilege.”

Paulo feigned a wounded look. “That really hurts my feelings.”

Tommie couldn't help laughing. “You are so full of it! Which reminds me, you never did answer my question. What are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “I came to see how you were doing. I wanted to see if you were settling in okay.”

“Just out of the clear blue?” Tommie's voice was heavy with skepticism. “I've been in Houston for seven months, Paulo. Why did you suddenly decide—” She broke off, her eyes narrowing suspiciously on his face. “Wait a minute. Did my sister ask you to check up on me?”

“No.”

“Liar!”

“What?”

“I know the only reason you're here is that Frankie asked—no, begged—you to stop by.”

Paulo scowled. “First of all, no one
begged
me to do anything. And even if Frankie did ask me to check up on you, what would be so terrible about that? She's your big sister, she's supposed to worry about you.”

Tommie pounced. “I knew it! You
did
talk to her!” Incensed, she shot out of her chair, snatched her plate of half-eaten lasagna off the counter, and stalked over to the kitchen sink.

Behind her, Paulo said evenly, “I don't understand why you're so upset about—”

Tommie whirled around. “Ever since I left New York, Frankie and my parents have been nagging me about moving back home. Every time I talk to one of them on the phone, it's the same thing. ‘Why do you want to live in Houston, Tommie?' ‘Wouldn't you rather be close to all your family and friends, Tommie?'” She shook her head in angry exasperation. “I know they mean well, but I don't appreciate being treated like some teenage runaway who can't handle the responsibility of being on my own. I'm thirty-three years old, damn it. I think I've already proved that I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

When she'd ended her tirade, Paulo said nothing, staring at her with an unreadable expression. The longer he remained silent, the more Tommie wanted to kick herself for letting her emotions get the better of her. If she
had
been romantically interested in Paulo, bitching about her problems—when they hardly even knew each other—would have been a surefire way to send him running for the hills. Experience had taught her that nothing drove a man away faster than a woman with too much baggage.