Like No One Else (3 page)

Turning away, she busied herself with scraping the remnants of her lasagna off her plate and down the drain. With the faucet running and the garbage disposal grinding noisily, she didn't hear Paulo approaching until he appeared beside her at the counter, placing his empty plate into the sink. Tommie tensed as he reached over, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger and gently turning her head, forcing her to meet his dark, intent gaze.

“You may be thirty-three years old,
querida
,” he murmured, “but you still have a lot of growing up to do.” Before Tommie could open her mouth to protest, he laid a finger against her lips and shook his head slowly. “Just hear me out.”

Tommie glared mutinously at him.

“I come from a big family,” Paulo continued. “I have four siblings and more aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, and nephews than I can count. One thing I've learned over the years is that no matter what may have happened in the past or what you may accomplish in life, there's nothing more important than family. Nothing. The next time your sister or your parents ask you about moving back home, don't automatically assume they're trying to keep a leash on you. Consider the possibility that
they
need you as much as you need them.” He paused, a hint of irony touching his mouth. “And if you think you don't need them, think again.”

Tommie gazed at him, his words striking a chord deep within her. Her relationship with her family had been complicated for as long as she could remember, and as much as she liked to believe she'd worked through all her issues during the four years she'd been away from home, she knew she still had a ways to go. Her outburst of a few minutes ago was proof of that.

Suddenly aware of Paulo's finger still resting against her lips, Tommie jerked her head back. “Thanks for the psychoanalysis, Dr. Sanchez,” she quipped with an aloofness she didn't feel. “Be sure to send me your bill.”

Paulo gave her a small, knowing smile that told her he saw right through her act. As she watched, he reached out and lightly trailed a fingertip down her cheek. Her flesh tingled. Her pulse quickened.

Striving to ignore her body's reaction to his touch, she glared at him. “You really have a problem keeping your hands to yourself, don't you, Detective?” she demanded. But her voice was too breathless, too husky with awareness to convincingly deliver the reprimand.

Paulo's gaze darkened. He shifted closer, subtly trapping her between the counter and his body.

Her heart thudded. She found herself staring at the sensual curve of his lips and wondering, not for the first time, how they would feel against hers, how they would taste.

As Paulo slowly lowered his dark head toward hers, her lips parted.

A cell phone jangled loudly, startling them both.

Frowning at the interruption, Paulo dug the phone out of his back pocket and flipped it open. “Sanchez.”

Turning away, Tommie inhaled a shaky breath, thinking of how dangerously close she had come to letting Paulo kiss her.

Letting?
her conscience mocked.
You were practically begging him to kiss you!

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Paulo's expression turn grim as he listened into the phone. “I'll be right there,” he muttered before snapping it shut and shoving it back into his pocket.

Tommie arched a brow. “Duty calls?”

“Yeah.” There was a trace of regret in his voice. He held her gaze for a long moment, then turned away.

She watched as he strode around the breakfast counter to retrieve his leather jacket from the back of the bar stool he'd been sitting on. “Well, thanks for stopping by,” she said briskly. “As you can see I'm just fine, so you don't have to check up on me anymore.”

Paulo sent her a wry look as he shrugged into his jacket. “Is that your not-so-subtle way of telling me never to darken your doorstep again?”

Tommie couldn't help grinning. “You said it, not me.” Grabbing her keys off the countertop, she said, “I'll walk you downstairs. I have to lock up the building anyway.”

As she followed him down the old stairwell, their footsteps echoed hollowly in the enclosed space, bouncing off the bare brick walls and bounding up to the skylight roof. During the daytime the stairway was flooded with natural light and warmth. At night it seemed cold and cavernous, dimly illuminated with recessed lighting that needed replacing. Getting her dance studio finished had ranked higher on Tommie's list of priorities than having a well-lit stairwell.

As if he'd intercepted her thoughts, Paulo, frowning at the ceiling, advised, “You should probably get those bulbs replaced soon.”

“I know. It's a wiring issue, so I have to call an electrician. It's on my to-do list, along with installing a locker room for my students and getting the intercom system fixed.”

Paulo nodded. “I'm surprised this entire building wasn't converted into lofts. Those are really popular in this area.”

“That's what the previous owner intended to do when he first bought the warehouse. He wanted to divide it into four cozy lofts. He only got as far as completing the first unit before he ran into some zoning issues and abandoned the project altogether. Once the housing market crashed, the building's odd location—not quite in the theater or warehouse district—made it difficult for him to resell without taking a huge profit loss.” Which he eventually did anyway when he sold the property to Tommie way below market value.

“I guess you came along at the right time,” Paulo observed.

“Most definitely,” Tommie agreed. “This building was a steal. I was able to kill two birds with one stone—I found a place to live
and
a place for my business.”

“What's the square footage?”

“Five thousand. A bit small by warehouse standards, but more than enough to suit my needs. I would have killed for this kind of space back in New York.”

They had reached the landing. To their right, the studio sat dark and empty.

As Tommie followed Paulo to the main door, she said, “Seriously, though. The next time my sister asks you to check up on me, feel free to let her know you're a busy detective with better things to do with your time than babysitting grown women.”

Paulo stopped at the door and turned back to her. “The only problem with that,” he murmured, his eyes roaming across her face, “is that your sister never asked me to check up on you.” He paused for a moment, letting that sink in before adding, “Thanks for dinner. I'll be seeing you around.”

Tommie locked the door behind him and leaned against it, her pulse drumming as his parting words echoed through her mind.
I'll be seeing you around.

Good Lord. The man could make even the most innocuous statement sound like a seductive promise. What had he meant by that? Surely he didn't intend to show up there again, after she'd specifically told him not to?

And what about the other thing he'd said? Did he really expect Tommie to believe that her sister hadn't put him up to visiting her?

She frowned.

Only one way to find out.

As Paulo emerged from Tommie Purnell's building that evening and climbed into an unmarked police cruiser, his mind wasn't on the crime scene he'd been summoned to a few minutes ago. Instead his thoughts were dominated by the woman he'd just left behind.

Tommie Purnell was as stunningly beautiful as he remembered, with flawless brown skin, long dark hair streaked with honey, sultry dark eyes, high cheekbones, and full, lush lips. She also happened to be sexier than any woman had a right to be—five foot eight inches of voluptuous curves poured into the body of a centerfold. A walking wet dream.

From the moment Paulo met her four years ago, he'd been ensnared by the sensuality she exuded like powerful pheromones. Everything about her, from her smoky voice to the way she moved, was primitively erotic. Dangerous.

Every unmarried man at the wedding, and even some of the hitched ones, had wanted to fuck her. None more so than Paulo. He'd had the privilege of escorting Tommie down the aisle and holding her in his arms as they'd danced together at the reception. And he'd been the envy of every bachelor gathered in the crowd when he'd caught the garter belt, giving him the perfect excuse to run his hands up Tommie's shapely thigh, to feel the hot silk of her skin. When he looked into her glittering eyes, he'd known that beneath her haughty facade, she had wanted him as much as he'd wanted her. But no matter how sexy she was, and no matter how powerful the attraction between them, Paulo's gut instincts had warned him that Tommie Purnell was trouble with a capital
T
. And considering his track record with women, which included a brief, disastrous marriage that had ended in divorce and an affair that had resulted in unspeakable tragedy, the
last
thing Paulo needed in his life was to become involved with a temptress like Tommie.

Since her arrival in town seven months ago, he'd purposely kept his distance. He knew that seeing her again would only remind him of how much he wanted her, and how completely wrong she was for him. Besides, he hadn't come to Houston looking for romance. He'd come here in search of a fresh start, to get his life back on track.

If only he could have stuck to his guns and stayed the hell away from Tommie.

The sight of her in a tight black leotard that outlined her firm, voluptuous breasts, and black leggings that molded those impossibly long legs of hers, had sent his blood pressure skyrocketing through the roof. When their gazes locked in the mirror, Paulo knew that nothing had changed. The chemistry between them was as potent as ever. If his cell phone hadn't rung when it did, there's no telling whether he would have stopped at just kissing her.

Paulo scowled, forcefully shoving all thoughts of Tommie to the back of his mind as he reached his destination, a meticulously landscaped neighborhood located minutes away from Houston's Galleria. Even before Paulo turned onto Woodland Drive, a quaint, tree-lined street flanked by large one- and two-story brick houses, he saw the flashing lights of emergency vehicles. A car from the sheriff's department was already parked at the end of the street, discouraging unauthorized persons from turning into the block. Three vans from local television stations and several other vehicles were staked out along the intersecting road. The reporters and cameramen taped live footage of the scene while the onlookers stood outside their cars gawking at the unfolding drama.

Paulo maneuvered around the police cruiser barricading the lane and nosed into a narrow spot beside the ambulance. He unwrapped a piece of Nicorette gum and stuffed it into his mouth, then reached for the door handle. He climbed out of the car and stepped into the clear, crisp night, grateful for the cold snap that had settled over the city, however temporarily.

As he started toward the single-story redbrick house that was swarming with activity, he saw neighbors hovering in doorways and clustered on front lawns and sidewalks. He felt the weight of their stares as he strode up the front walkway, lined on both sides with carefully tended beds of azaleas and begonias. A white BMW was parked in the driveway, and the house had been roped off with yellow crime-scene tape.

The uniformed officer standing guard at the front door nodded a greeting to Paulo and lifted the tape high enough for him to duck under.

“You the first on the scene?” Paulo asked as he signed the obligatory security logbook.

The officer nodded. “Call came into dispatch about an hour ago. I was the closest, lucky me.” He grimaced, shaking his blond head. “It ain't pretty in there.”

“It rarely is.” Paulo stepped into the spacious foyer and glanced around the tastefully furnished living room. A cream sofa and love seat, along with a brown leather chaise longue, were arranged around a limestone fireplace that soared to the second-story ceiling. Vibrant watercolors depicting scenes of a bustling Mexican village hung on the walls.

The place was already crawling with crime-scene investigators, detectives from the sheriff's department, and staff members from the coroner's office. Measurements were being taken, the rooms dusted for fingerprints or shoe prints, a vacuum used to suck up any unseen trace evidence. A videographer panned the rooms of the house, throughout which bright lights had been set up.

Another uniformed officer greeted Paulo by name, then ushered him down a long, wide corridor. The air was redolent with the stench of blood and violent death.

At the end of the hallway they reached the master bedroom. A young woman's nude body lay spread-eagled on the floor in a pool of blood. She'd been stabbed multiple times across her throat and chest. Blood from the deep, savage lacerations had leaked onto the oatmeal-colored Berber carpeting beneath her. On the wall above the queen-size bed, the word
LIAR
had been scrawled in blood.

“Jesus,” Paulo muttered under his breath.

After fifteen years in homicide, he had acquired enough toughness and objectivity to work even the most gruesome crime scene without an ounce of queasiness. But that didn't mean he'd grown immune to the sight of a dead body, that he didn't feel a twinge of sorrow or anger over the senseless loss of a life. The day he stopped feeling anything was the day he'd quit.

A photographer was busily snapping shot after shot, his flash strobing the grisly scene. Two other technicians were moving carefully around the room, lifting latent prints and searching for trace evidence while the lead forensics investigator, crouching near the victim, took measurements around the body.

Norah O'Connor's bright red hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and her thin, freckled face was set in a grim expression as she concentrated on her task. Hearing Paulo's muttered oath, she glanced over her shoulder at him. “You got here fast. Donovan says he just called you a few minutes ago.”

“I was nearby,” Paulo said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. “Where is he?”

“My guess would be the kitchen, interviewing the witness.”

“The witness?”

O'Connor nodded. “The victim's coworker. She's the one who discovered the body. She said she came over here after work to check up on the victim, who had called in sick today. She was concerned about her. Apparently they were good friends.” O'Connor grimaced. “Needless to say, she's pretty shaken up.”

“No wonder.” Out of habit Paulo sketched a quick sign of the cross over his heart before entering the room. Watching where he stepped, he approached the body and sank to his haunches on the opposite side of O'Connor.

The victim was moderately tall, at least five-eight, and appeared to be in her late twenties. Her long black hair was in disarray, as if she'd put up a struggle with her assailant. Dark brown eyes stared sightlessly upward. Her dusky skin was now pallid in death. Although her face was bloated, Paulo could tell she'd been beautiful.

As he studied her, he felt a whisper of recognition. He'd met this woman before.
But where? And when?

“You know the victim?” O'Connor, ever observant, had detected the flash of recognition on his face.

Paulo frowned, shaking his head. “I don't think so.”

“You might,” a voice spoke from the doorway.

Paulo looked up as his partner, Julius Donovan, stepped into the room. Tall, bald, dark as Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee with the lanky build of a small forward, the detective had been named after his father's favorite basketball player, Julius “Dr. J” Erving. To his father's dismay, Julius had never developed his namesake's aptitude for basketball, preferring activities that appealed more to his cerebral nature, such as solving crossword puzzles and reading science fiction. He'd graduated from college with honors and accepted a lucrative job as a securities analyst for a major brokerage firm. But after just two years, he'd made a drastic career change, deciding to serve his community by becoming a cop. After nearly four years on the force, he'd established himself as a smart, tenacious investigator with good instincts, even if he tended to be a bit overzealous at times. Paulo not only liked the kid; he had a lot of respect for him. Which was something he couldn't say about everyone he worked with.

Paulo warily regarded the younger detective. “What're you talking about?”

Julius Donovan, wearing pleated trousers and a dark sport coat that hung loosely on his narrow frame, advanced farther into the room. “The victim's name is Maribel Cruz. She's twenty-nine years old.” He paused, then added pointedly, “She worked as a legal secretary at Santiago and Associates.”

Paulo stared at him, his gut clenching. “Shit,” he muttered grimly.

Norah O'Connor glanced up from measuring blood spatter to divide a speculative look between the two men. “Why is that significant?”

Donovan frowned, bemused by the question. “Why? Because Sanchez is re—” He broke off abruptly at the hard look Paulo gave him.

Very few people in the department knew that Paulo was a member of one of Houston's richest, most powerful families. And he preferred to keep it that way. Although he'd been in law enforcement long enough to be considered a seasoned veteran, he was still a relative newcomer to the Houston Police Department. The last thing he needed was to be ostracized or harassed by his peers just because some of his relatives happened to be worth a fortune.

“The victim worked for the largest law firm in Houston,” Donovan amended, recovering quickly from his near admission. “Isn't that significant enough?”

O'Connor pursed her thin lips in disapproval. “I hope you're not suggesting, Detective Donovan, that Miss Cruz should receive preferential treatment in this investigation simply because of who her employer was?”

“Of course not. But it doesn't matter. Even if
we
don't make a big deal out of it, the media will.”

“Doesn't make it right,” O'Connor retorted. “Anyway, why did you say Sanchez might recognize the victim?”

Donovan's mouth curved in a grim smile. “She was a beautiful woman. Sanchez knows a lot of beautiful women.”

Paulo smiled briefly, but he was remembering the first time he'd met Maribel Cruz. It was two years ago, shortly after he'd moved to Houston. His cousins, Ignacio and Naomi Santiago, had coerced him into attending a fund-raiser dinner hosted by their law firm. The black-tie function had been attended by prominent businessmen, politicians, civic and community leaders, as well as many of the firm's employees, among them Maribel Cruz, who'd flirted shamelessly with Paulo throughout the evening. If he hadn't already promised to be on his best behavior that night, he and the sexy legal secretary probably would have wound up in the sack later.

And now she was dead. Brutally murdered in her own home.

Paulo swore under his breath, lifting his gaze from Maribel Cruz's savaged remains to look at his partner. “Has the ME arrived yet?”

“On his way.”

“Has anyone talked to the neighbors?”

“I've got uniforms canvassing the neighborhood. Problem is, most of these folks work during the day. The odds that one of them saw anything are slim to none.”

“Has the family been notified?”

Donovan nodded. “Her parents and siblings are flying in from Brownsville. Your fam—er, Maribel's employer was generous enough to pay for their airfare and put them up in a nice hotel downtown. They should arrive later this evening.”

Paulo nodded, recalling that it was his cousin Naomi who'd introduced him to Maribel that night. Naomi had spoken very highly of Maribel, which was another reason Paulo had decided she was off-limits. It was one thing to indulge in meaningless one-night stands with women he'd picked up at a bar or a wedding, women he'd never have to see or hear from again. But screwing around with his family's valued employees was just asking for trouble.

Donovan said, “I've asked the coworker, Kathleen Phillips, to hang around a little longer. I figured you'd want to ask her some additional questions.”

Paulo nodded distractedly. His gaze had returned to the bloody word inscribed on the wall above the bed.
Liar.
What the hell did it mean? Was it an indictment of the victim? A message from the killer? A calling card?