Like No One Else (34 page)

Jackson's face flushed with anger. He staggered back a step, glaring reproachfully at Paulo. “You're way out of line here, Detective,” he warned. “You didn't come here in an official capacity. This is harassment, bordering on police brutality. If you don't leave the premises right now I'll—”

“You'll do what?” Paulo taunted, sneering. “Call the cops? Be my fucking guest.”

Jackson stared at him in stunned disbelief. And then suddenly, without warning, a wide, knowing grin swept across his face. “She's still got it,” he marveled, shaking his head. “After all these years, she's still got the magic touch. The Tommie-mojo.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Paulo said through gritted teeth.

Jackson laughed, giving him an almost pitying look. “I don't know you from Adam, but I'm sure you're a decent man. A good cop. Yet here you are, about to throw away your career over some woman you hardly even know. But it's not your fault, man. You've been put under a spell. You've fallen victim to the Tommie-mojo. The way she walks, the way she talks, the way she smiles. She could step into a room, and a blind man would sit up and take notice. When we were dating I couldn't keep any friends because they all wanted to sleep with her. Even my seventy-five-year-old grandfather couldn't keep his eyes off her at summer cookouts. I've known some beautiful women in my life, but none of them had the Tommie-mojo. So believe me, Detective, I sympathize with what you're going through. But take heart. You weren't the first casualty, and you definitely won't be the last.”

When he'd finished speaking, Paulo raked him with a look of scathing contempt. “You're full of shit, Jackson. I've seen your type before, and it's always the same garbage. Blame the victim. It's the child's fault for being so irresistible her father couldn't keep his filthy hands to himself. It's the high school cheerleader's fault for being at the wrong place at the wrong time when some pervert snatched her off the street in broad daylight. It's the beautiful woman's fault her pathetic loser of a boyfriend couldn't accept the fact that she didn't want him anymore. She must be some sort of evil sorceress who cast a spell on him, causing him to become so obsessed with her that he'd uproot himself and follow her to another city just to stalk her. Yeah, I know your type, you twisted son of a bitch. The one and only difference between you and a convicted felon is that you got away with your crime.

“But I'm watching you, preacher,” Paulo said, lowering his voice to a silky, dangerous caress. “I know where you live, where you work, where you pray. I'm watching you, and the first wrong move you make, I'm coming down on your ass like fire and brimstone.”

Jackson's face reddened with anger and humiliation. “You won't get away with harassing me like this, Sanchez. You're a dirty cop.”

“No dirtier than you, Deacon.” Paulo reached out, patted his cheek. “Don't let me keep you any longer from your meeting. I've strayed a bit from my Catholic roots, but I still understand and appreciate the importance of doing the Lord's work.”

As he turned and sauntered toward his cruiser, Jackson jeered, “How does it feel to have sloppy seconds?”

Paulo chuckled, shaking his head. “Come on, man, you can do better than that. No man in his right mind would think of Tommie Purnell as sloppy seconds.”

“Sloppy thirds, then. Or sloppy fourths or fifths.” Jackson sneered at him over the roof of the police cruiser. “She's been around quite a bit, Detective.”

“So have I.” A narrow grin cut across Paulo's face. “So I guess that makes us soul mates.”

Jackson's face hardened with hatred. “If you think she's gonna stay with you, think again. She's the love 'em and leave 'em type. I was never good enough for her. No way in hell is she settling down with some wetback cop. You don't stand a chance with her,
mi amigo
.”

“Maybe not, but I'll take my chances over yours any day of the week.”

“Good luck then, 'cause you're gonna need it.” A malicious gleam filled Jackson's eyes. “Oh, and if you ever find yourself looking for ways to spice up your love life, here's a little suggestion. Invite one of your friends over. She's really into that.”

Paulo went very still. “What did you just say?”

Jackson smiled, knowing he'd finally scored a point. “Our girl is into threesomes. Oh, she might protest a little at first. She might even pretend like she's not enjoying it. But it's all just an act, believe me. If you know anything about Tommie—”

Paulo didn't remember moving.

One moment he was standing beside the cruiser, his hand on the door handle. A moment later he was charging Jackson, fueled with lethal rage as he slammed his fist into the man's face. Jackson staggered backward, swung blindly, and caught a vicious blow to the stomach and a hard uppercut that snapped his head back. Blood gushed from his nose and mouth as he went down like a felled tree, howling in agony.

As Paulo stood over him, contemplating whether to finish him off, he didn't notice that another vehicle had pulled into the parking lot. He didn't hear the car door slam, didn't hear the brisk approach of footsteps. Didn't hear anything until a woman's familiar voice said, “Oh, Lord. Not again.”

Only then did Paulo lift his head.

As the scarlet haze slowly dissipated from his brain, he realized that the newcomer was Tommie's pianist, Hazel Calhoun. She was frowning and shaking her head at him, hands planted on her hips in a manner that reminded him of the times his grandmother Maria had scolded him for sneaking into her kitchen and swiping churros that were reserved for the church fund-raiser.

Then, as now, he had the grace to look sheepish. “Afternoon, Mrs. Calhoun,” he murmured.

“Paulo Sanchez, what on earth are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I came to have a talk with Deacon Jackson.”

“Hmmph. Looks like you did a lot more than
talk
,” she said, glancing pointedly at the semiconscious man curled into the fetal position on the ground.

Jackson groaned. “Sister Calhoun, call the police,” he mumbled weakly. “This officer…assaulted me. I…want to…press charges.”

“Oh dear.” Hazel looked at Paulo, concern etching lines into her forehead. “Did she tell you what happened?”

Paulo nodded, his jaw clenched.

“Terrible thing he did to her. Just shameful.” Her dark eyes misted and her nostrils flared. “I can't believe she's been keeping it bottled up all this time. She tries to be so tough and nonchalant, but deep down inside she's just a hurt, frightened little girl.”

“I know,” Paulo murmured. “But she's strong, too. Stronger than she realizes.”

Hazel's gaze softened on his face. “And she needs a strong man by her side. Someone she can trust. Someone who can take care of her, help heal those wounds.” She laid a gentle hand against his cheek. “I think you can be that man, Paulo Sanchez. I saw it in your eyes the first time I met you. The two of you can be so good for each other.”

Jackson groaned again. “Oh dear.” Hazel shot a worried glance at Paulo. “You'd better get out of here before the other deacons show up for the meeting. Thank God they're always late, or they would have been here by now.” Before Paulo could protest, she began ushering him toward his cruiser as if he were a late congregant being escorted to a pew in church. “Don't worry about Deacon Jackson. I'll deal with him. Just between you and me, I've been wanting to knock him out myself ever since I found out what he did to Tomasina. Lord forgive me, something just never seemed right about him. It's the eyes. The eyes are the window to the soul, and his are just empty. Oh, let me give you something.”

She opened the back door of her car, which she'd parked beside the cruiser, and pulled out a covered cake dish. “Tomasina told me how much you enjoyed my peach cobbler,” she said almost shyly. “I thought you might like to try my sour cream carrot cake.”

Touched by her generosity, Paulo asked, “Didn't you bring it for today's meeting?”

She waved a dismissive hand. “It was Deacon Jackson's turn to bring something, but of course he asked me to do it for him. Hmmph. Showing up empty-handed to a meeting is the
least
of his problems right now.”

As Paulo accepted the cake she frowned at his bleeding knuckles, then tsk-tsked after examining them for a moment. “You shouldn't need any stitches, but you'd better soak your hand in some ice and have Tomasina kiss it when you get back to the loft.”

Paulo arched an amused brow. “How'd you know I was going there?”

Hazel gave him a soft, intuitive smile. “After you showed up on Monday, I knew you wouldn't be able to stay away.”

Sunday, November 15

“I'm so nervous,” Tommie muttered, crossing and uncrossing her legs as she stared out the passenger window of Paulo's Dodge Durango. “I can't believe I let you talk me into this.”

Paulo chuckled. “Relax. It's just dinner.”

“It's not
just dinner
,” she corrected, turning to face him. “It's dinner with your family.”

“Okay, then. It's just my family.”

“Easy for you to say. It's
your
family!”

Paulo laughed, torn between exasperation and amusement. “
Ay Dios
! What are you so nervous about, woman?”

“Well, gee, let me think. The man I've been dating less than a week is taking me to meet his family, who all happen to be wealthy, successful lawyers with degrees from Ivy League universities and powerful connections that reach to the White House.” She shrugged. “You're right. Nothing to be nervous about.”

Amused, Paulo shook his head at her. “Not that it matters,” he said dryly, “but you're not exactly the girl from the wrong side of the tracks. Your father is a renowned archaeologist, your mother was the CEO of a major pharmaceutical company before she retired, and they live in a million-dollar Victorian. So tell me again why you're so nervous about meeting my cousins?”

Tommie groaned, leaning back against the headrest and closing her eyes. “They're going to hate me. I just know it.”

“No, they're not.”

“Yes, they are.”

“No, they're not,” Paulo insisted. “They're going to love you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because they're smart, down-to-earth people who know a good thing when they see it. And you, Miss Purnell, are definitely a good thing.”

Turning her head, Tommie smiled gratefully at him. “You're so sweet. I know I'm driving you crazy with all my hand wringing.”

“Goodness, no,” he said, widening his eyes as if the thought had never occurred to him.

“Ha, ha. Very funny.” Grinning, she reached over and threaded her fingers through his thick, freshly trimmed hair. “Thank you for not getting too much cut off when you went to the barbershop this afternoon. I've gotten used to your wild, unruly hair. I've grown to love it.”
And the rest of you, too
, she added silently.

Paulo slanted her a soft look. “Why do you think I only asked for a trim?”

Tommie stared at him. “You did that…for me?”

“Of course.” His mouth curved in a wicked grin. “What else are you going to pull when you're having one of those head-banging orgasms?”

Tommie laughed, blushing sheepishly. “Good point.”

As Paulo returned his attention to the road, she admired his darkly handsome appearance. Even with the neatly trimmed hair and a fresh shave, he still managed to look rakish and primitively male in an open-necked black shirt, a well-cut black blazer, and black trousers. When her gaze strayed to his bandaged hand on the steering wheel, her smile faded.

She hadn't known what to think when he returned to the loft yesterday afternoon, a cake dish tucked under one arm and his right hand wrapped in gauze. When she asked him what had happened, he told her he'd cut his hand on a sharp object while he was at his apartment packing some clothes. Tommie hadn't believed him. Remembering that he'd intended to speak to Roland while he was out, she'd asked him outright whether he'd gotten into a fight with her ex-boyfriend. He'd flatly denied it, saying that Roland wasn't at the church when he arrived, which was where he'd run into Mrs. Calhoun. Still skeptical, Tommie had called her pianist to thank her for the carrot cake. She, too, had claimed ignorance of any altercation between Paulo and Roland. Deciding that Mrs. Calhoun wouldn't lie to her, Tommie had let the matter go, though doubt lingered in the back of her mind.

She'd gotten sidetracked when Paulo informed her that his cousin Naomi had called to invite him and Tommie to dinner on Sunday evening. Tommie didn't know what shocked her more: the fact that his family thought she was important enough to warrant an introduction, or the fact that Paulo obviously agreed. She didn't know what to make of his willingness to introduce her to his cousins. She was afraid to read too much into it, but it was hard not to. Guys like Paulo Sanchez didn't take women home to meet their families—unless they believed the woman in question had a future in their lives.

It scared Tommie to realize just how much she wanted a future with Paulo.

Still, the thought of meeting his family struck sheer terror in her heart. Although Paulo was unquestionably his own man, she knew how important his cousins were to him, knew what an influence they'd had in shaping his life. It would be naive of Tommie to think their opinion of her, good or bad, would make absolutely no difference to Paulo. She knew better.

So she'd been a nervous wreck since yesterday afternoon, fretting over what to wear, how to style her hair, and how much makeup to apply. After much deliberation—and a desperate phone call to her sister, who'd squealed with excitement upon hearing about her evening plans—Tommie had settled on a simple yet elegant black silk sheath and a pair of Christian Louboutin stiletto pumps she'd splurged on back in New York and had been saving for a special occasion. Because she wore her hair scraped back into a tight bun or ponytail five days a week when she was teaching, she decided to leave it down that evening, loose and caressing her bare shoulders. When she finally emerged from the bedroom and saw the stunned look on Paulo's face, she knew all the hours of agonizing had been more than worth it.

She smiled at him now. “I really enjoyed meeting Cesar yesterday. And you say
I
have interesting friends.”

Paulo chuckled. Not taking any chances with her safety, he'd arranged for one of his longtime friends to stay at the loft with her while he ran his errands. Cesar Ortegon was a former bodyguard who now moonlighted as a nightclub bouncer while attending college full-time. Tall, burly, with a shaved head and tattoos covering his thick arms, he could easily have portrayed an inmate in a prison movie—which made his ability to quote Aristotle and Shakespeare at the drop of a dime all the more disarming. While Tommie caught up on her bookkeeping, Cesar had stayed out of her way, working quietly on his midterm paper until she, needing a mental break, had drawn him into a friendly poker game. When Paulo returned to the loft, he'd found them laughing and talking trash to each other like they'd been buddies for years.

Tommie's case of nerves returned as she and Paulo reached his family's palatial Mediterranean-style villa in River Oaks.

“Relax,” Paulo murmured when he came around to open the door for her. He kissed her gently, taking care not to smudge her lipstick. “They're going to love you.”

The family was waiting for them, crowded expectantly around the front door. Ignacio and Naomi Santiago, a handsome couple who'd graced many magazine covers as Houston's most influential power duo. And their daughters Angela, Rebecca, and Daniela, three gorgeous, confident women who bore just enough of a resemblance to one another to leave no doubt that they were related. The two elder sisters were accompanied by their spouses and children, five offspring between them.

Paulo and Tommie were greeted with huge, welcoming smiles, enveloped in warm hugs, and ushered into the sweeping grandeur of the house. Paulo plucked his youngest cousin off the floor, hoisted the little girl into the air, and spun her around while her delighted squeals bounded up to the vaulted ceiling. Observing the tender expression on Tommie's face as she watched the touching display, Naomi slipped her arm companionably through hers and said, “I'm so glad you could make it.”

Tommie turned and smiled at the regally beautiful, dark-skinned woman. “Thank you for inviting me. You have a lovely home and a wonderful family.”

Naomi's dark eyes twinkled with mischief. “You know we're always looking for additions.”

Before Tommie could respond—assuming she could have formulated a response—Daniela latched on to her other arm, leaned close, and whispered, “Fabulous shoes!”

By the time dinner was under way in the formal dining room, Tommie realized her fears about Paulo's family had been unfounded. While there was no disputing their wealth and status, the Santiagos were completely devoid of pretension. Although they dined on expensive china and the gleaming mahogany table was draped in fine linen, the laughter and conversation that filled the room was anything but refined. It was loud, animated, blissfully chaotic. While Ignacio Santiago was indisputably the captain of the ship, his wife and daughters were equally strong-willed, outspoken, and fiercely devoted to their family. They adored Paulo, alternately doting on him, teasing him, and admonishing him whenever he said or did something outrageous. There was a unity among them all that flowed from one end of the table to the other. A simple, strong, steady flow of love that touched a chord in Tommie and filled her with a sense of belonging.

She was perfectly at ease answering questions about herself, never feeling like she was being interrogated by a team of lawyers—which, in essence, she was. She told them about working for Crandall Thorne, whom they knew personally, and about her dancing. She and the Santiago women reminisced about their various travels abroad, the food and music, the art and culture. When Tommie and Daniela wandered into a conversation about fashion, the men rolled their eyes at one another. Trading conspiratorial grins, the two women agreed to continue their discussion later, when they wouldn't be rudely interrupted.

Through it all, Tommie was aware of Paulo watching her from across the table. She knew that he'd been watching her almost from the moment they'd sat down to dinner. She could feel his gaze on her, a tactile touch that heated her skin and left her nerve endings tingling. More than once she'd deliberately turned her head to catch him staring at her. He'd winked, the edges of his mouth curving in a secret smile that made her heart lurch crazily.

One such private exchange was caught by Naomi, who gave them a knowing smile before saying conversationally, “So, Tommie, I understand that you and Paulo met at your sister's wedding four years ago.”

“That's right.” Tommie looked at Paulo, her lips quirking and her eyes glimmering with a veiled threat to tell his family all about his scandalous behavior with the brunette. “It was a beautiful wedding, wasn't it?”

“Absolutely.” His own eyes glittered with wicked challenge, daring her.

Naomi sighed. “I suppose the two of you owe a debt of gratitude to Frankie and Sebastien for introducing you to each other. If they hadn't gotten married, you may never have met.”

Their gazes softened on each other. “That's true,” they murmured in unison.

Conversations around the table died down as eleven other pairs of eyes turned to watch them.

Naomi took another languid sip of wine. “So, do you have any other weddings you're planning to attend in the near future?”

As Tommie started to shake her head, Paulo, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin and rising from the table, said, “Now that you mention it, Naomi. We do.”

Tommie froze, staring at him as he rounded the table and came toward her.

The hushed silence that fell over the room was deafening. Silverware stilled, glasses stopped tinkling, no one breathed.

Holding Tommie's gaze, Paulo pulled out her chair, knelt in front of her, and took her trembling hands in his. He raised them to his lips, tenderly kissed her fingertips.

“I love you,” he said in an achingly husky voice. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Tears welled in Tommie's eyes, blurring her vision. If she hadn't been sitting down, shock would have sent her swooning to the floor. “What are you saying?” she whispered, heart lodged in her throat.

“I'm saying I want you to be my wife, Tommie. Will you do that? Will you marry me?”

“Oh my God…Paulo…oh, baby…”

He smiled. “Is that a yes or a no?”

“Yes! Yes, I'll marry you!”

As Paulo crushed his mouth to hers, loud cheers and applause erupted around the room. Forks tapped against glasses. Two of the older kids drummed excitedly on the table. Naomi, Angela, Rebecca, and Daniela dabbed at their eyes and exchanged teary, triumphant smiles.

Oblivious of the commotion around them, Paulo and Tommie kissed deeply and passionately. When they at last drew apart, the dining room was empty. Everyone had quietly cleared out, giving them privacy.

Tommie smiled into Paulo's eyes, her arms looped around his neck as he lifted her from the chair, then sat down and pulled her onto his lap. “I can't believe you just did that,” she whispered. “I can't believe you proposed.”

“Neither can I,” he admitted, stroking a hand down her hair and touching her face. “It wasn't planned. But the moment the words left my mouth, I knew it was right. Nothing in my life has ever felt more right.”

Tommie's heart swelled with emotion. “I love you,” she said fiercely. “I want to have your baby.”