Like No One Else (6 page)

“What?” Frankie asked blankly.

Tommie slapped the countertop. “I knew it!”

“Knew what?”

“You
did
tell Paulo to check up on me.”

“What? I did no such thing!”

“Frankie,” Tommie growled in warning.

Frankie laughed. “I didn't tell him anything, I swear!” She paused as comprehension dawned. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that Paulo came by to see you?”

“Yes. He just left not too long ago.” Tommie frowned. “I thought you'd put him up to it.”

“Nope.” Frankie hesitated. “Not because I didn't consider it, mind you. I did, to be perfectly honest with you. But I knew you'd be mad if you ever found out, so I kept my mouth shut. Looks like I didn't need to say a word to him anyway. He found his way there all on his own.” She sounded inordinately pleased.

“Don't get any crazy ideas,” Tommie muttered. “There's nothing going on between me and Paulo. Nothing whatsoever.”

“Are you sure?”

Tommie scowled. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Frankie chuckled. “You may think I had my head in the clouds on my wedding day—which is partially true—but I wasn't completely oblivious of everything but Sebastien. I saw the way you and Paulo were looking at each other during the ceremony and at the reception, even during the bridal party's photo session.
A lot
of people noticed. It was clear that you and Paulo were very attracted to each other.”

“So what?” Tommie retorted, tracing the rim of her glass with a manicured fingertip. “That doesn't mean we should start dating. He's not even my type.”

Frankie snorted in disbelief. “Since when?”

“Excuse me?”

“Since when is a guy like Paulo Sanchez not your type?” Frankie challenged. “You've always had a thing for bad boys. Paulo's got that whole renegade thing going, right down to the surly grin and cocky swagger. And he's sexy as hell. Seems to me he's
exactly
your type.”

“Not anymore.”

“Really?” Frankie's voice was heavy with cynicism.

Tommie bristled. “I know this may be hard for you to believe, but I'm not the same person who left home four years ago. I've done a lot of growing up, and my taste in men has evolved. I'm not denying that Paulo's hot. I know he'd make an incredible one-night stand. But that's about all he could do for me, and at this point in my life, I think I deserve more.”

“Of course you do,” Frankie said softly. “I certainly didn't mean to imply otherwise.”

“I know. And I understand where you're coming from. You've found your Mr. Right, and you want me to be as happy as you are. Believe me, I want the same thing, too, if it's in the cards for me. But after all the bad decisions I've made concerning men, the last thing I need is to get involved with a guy who's clearly wrong for me.”

“Wow,” Frankie murmured.

Tommie couldn't help grinning at her sister's awed tone. “I told you I'm a changed woman.” But even as the assertion left her mouth, Paulo's words went through her mind, taunting her.
Good thing I'm a changed man.

Like hell
, Tommie thought.

Frankie said, “I hear what you're saying about Paulo, but I wouldn't be too quick to write him off. I'll admit that my first impression of him wasn't all that great. I thought he was cocky, a little too rough around the edges, a shameless womanizer—”

“I'll stop you when you start lying,” Tommie drawled.

Frankie laughed. “The point is, since Paulo and Sebastien are such good friends, I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. And I'm glad I did. Because the more I got to know Paulo, the better I liked him. He has a wicked sense of humor, and Sebastien says he's one of the best detectives he's ever worked with. And you should see how good he is with Kaia, Ramon, and Marcos. They positively adore him. I don't know about you, but to me there's nothing sexier than a tough guy with a soft spot for kids.”

“Okay, that's the second time you've called Paulo sexy,” Tommie said, deliberately ignoring the rest of what her sister had said. “I hope for your sake that Sebastien didn't hear you.”

“Oh, hush. Sebastien has no reason to be jealous. He knows how incredible I think he is. And, no, I'm not saying that because he just walked into the room.” The low, deep timbre of Sebastien's voice could be heard in the background. Frankie's amused response was muffled, as if she'd covered the mouthpiece with her hand. A moment later, Tommie heard what sounded suspiciously like soft kissing noises.

She rolled her eyes, then cleared her throat loudly.

Frankie came back on the line, mumbling sheepishly, “Sorry about that.”

Tommie grinned. “I was going to say you two should get a room, but I guess you're already one step ahead of me.”

Frankie chuckled. “Well, let me run. I still need to go over my presentation before bedtime. I'll call you tomorrow to let you know how it went.”

“Okay. Knock 'em dead, kiddo. And kiss Marcos for me.”

“Will do.”

Tommie hung up the phone and took a long sip of merlot, savoring the smooth, rich flavor in her mouth before swallowing.

One of the first good friends she'd made in New York had been a sommelier at an upscale restaurant in midtown Manhattan. Myles Sumter had taught Tommie practically everything he knew about wine, insisting that her preference for margaritas—“party-girl drinks,” he'd disdainfully called them—demonstrated an appalling lack of sophistication for one who'd been to Italy and France and should know better. The first time they'd gone out to dinner, Tommie, wanting to impress him, had ordered a glass of pinot grigio. Myles was so mortified she thought he'd swoon to the floor. After lecturing her about the inferiority of pinot grigio while the smirking sommelier looked on, Myles had changed her order to a cabernet sauvignon. After that night, he'd taken it upon himself to give her a crash course in wine appreciation, vowing to convert her into a respectable connoisseur, one who would never,
ever
embarrass herself again by ordering a cheap wine.

At Tommie's going-away party, Myles had surprised her with a gift-wrapped case of his favorite wines, saying sulkily, “Since you insist upon returning to that uncivilized, godforsaken state, this will at least ensure that you don't revert to drinking beer and margaritas.”

When Tommie laughingly pointed out to him that fine wines were also sold in Texas, he'd merely arched a dubious brow at her.

Chuckling at the memory, Tommie raised her glass in a mock toast to Myles before drinking the rest of the merlot. She missed her old friend, as well as the vibrant life she'd carved out for herself in New York City. Her network of friends had included an eclectic cast of dancers and actors, activists and waiters, playwrights and writers—some struggling, others quite successful. When Tommie wasn't touring the country with her dance company, she'd enjoyed shopping with her friends, going to the theater, jogging in Central Park, and attending fabulous dinner parties on the Upper West Side before catching a cab to her favorite nightclub in Harlem. Because she knew the right people, she'd always had a front-row seat at Fashion Week, and stealing kisses with hunky strangers on rooftop terraces had been the highlight of many raucous New Year's Eve parties.

It hadn't taken Tommie long to become acclimated to the frenetic pace of New York City, with its incessant noise and traffic, its crowded streets and pulsing energy. She'd soaked it all up, embracing it so completely that most people she'd met had automatically assumed she was a native. Had her world not been turned upside down seven months ago, she'd still be living there.

But you're not
, her conscience mocked.
When the going got tough, you packed up and ran away like a coward. Guess you weren't much of a New Yorker after all.

Rousing herself from her gloomy thoughts, Tommie rose and carried her empty wineglass over to the kitchen sink. She washed and rinsed the glass, along with the dishes she and Paulo had used. When she'd finished, she switched off the light and headed toward her bedroom. She'd been up since the crack of dawn working on choreography for a local dance troupe scheduled to perform at the city's Thanksgiving Day Parade later that month. And tomorrow promised to be an even longer day, with her last class ending at 8:00 p.m.

The grueling schedule was nothing new to Tommie. As a professional dancer, she'd begun each day with a rigorous hour of classroom instruction followed by several hours of rehearsal or a performance in the evening. The demands of traveling, practicing, and performing on a nightly basis had been physically exhausting, and there were many nights, as she'd soaked her aching muscles in a hot bath, that Tommie had questioned her sanity for wanting to become a dancer. But the doubts never lasted for very long. Ever since she was a little girl, twirling around the house in her pink tutu and pink tights, she'd dreamed of performing on Broadway. Dancing was in her blood and always would be, though at thirty-three, even she could admit that the wear and tear of dancing was beginning to catch up to her. Gone were the days that she could party all night and still get up early to exercise without feeling like shit. She needed her eight hours of sleep as much as she needed a healthy diet of nutritious, stamina-building foods.

Yawning, Tommie entered her bedroom and flicked on a Tiffany floor lamp that cast a soft, golden glow over the room. She crossed to the large window, and with only a passing glance into the dark night, she drew the curtains closed. As she started toward the bathroom, she shook her hair free of its ponytail and peeled off her skirt, leggings, and leotard, dropping them to the floor as she went. She'd take a hot shower, then hit the sack.

It wasn't the exciting life she'd led in New York. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

But for the first time ever, Tommie felt like she was finally in control of her life.
She
determined the number of clients she took on,
she
dictated the days and times her classes were held,
she
set her own fee schedule.

She answered to no one but herself.

And after everything she'd been through, being able to control her own destiny beat the hell out of
exciting
any day of the week.

 

Standing in the shadow of a giant oak across the street from the small brick building, the stranger watched Tommie Purnell's silhouette in the bedroom window. He'd timed his arrival to coincide with her nightly ritual of showering before bedtime.

When the light went on in the room, his muscles had tightened. And then she'd appeared in the window, beautiful and alluring, and a hot rush of anticipation slid through his veins. When she glanced briefly outside, he'd huddled closer to the tree, although he knew she wouldn't see him.

Not yet. It wasn't time.

Closing his eyes, he imagined her undressing herself, slowly and seductively because she knew she had a captive audience. He saw the smooth, supple curves of her voluptuous body, her hair tumbling down her back in a rainfall of dark brown. In his mind's eye she looked over her shoulder at him, her pouty lips curving in a sultry smile, her dark eyes beckoning invitingly to him. He imagined joining her in the steamy shower and pinning her against the tiled wall, her nails digging into his shoulders, her long legs wrapped around his waist, her head thrown back to expose her throat and those large, slick breasts as he rammed into her.

He shuddered at the vivid image, his cock stiffening inside his pants, his blood heating. How he would have loved to cross the narrow street and sneak into the old building, to climb the stairs to the second-story loft and let himself inside. He wanted to roam around her apartment, touching her things, drinking in her scent that lingered in the air. And when she emerged from the shower, he wanted to be there waiting for her. Waiting to strike.

And he would.

But not tonight.

Tonight he would savor the thrill of setting his plan in motion, knowing it was just the beginning….

It was after ten o'clock by the time Paulo steered his police cruiser through the tall iron gate that guarded the palatial residence of Ignacio and Naomi Santiago. The sprawling Mediterranean-style villa boasted stone columns, second-story balconies, a wraparound veranda, and lush, manicured gardens. The property was situated on five heavily wooded acres in River Oaks, home to Houston's wealthy elite.

Paulo followed the curve of the flagstone driveway and parked in front of the mansion. He took the stone steps three at a time, but just as he reached the massive front door, it swung open to reveal Naomi Santiago peering out anxiously at him.

At age sixty-five Naomi didn't look a day over forty, with her smooth mahogany skin, chic haircut, and trim figure. Whether she was decked out in Chanel or sporting her favorite faded jeans—as she was now—she'd always struck Paulo as having the proud, regal bearing of a queen. And what's more, she had a heart of gold to match.

She took one look at Paulo's grim expression and lifted a trembling hand to her mouth. “Oh my God,” she breathed. “I was hoping it was a terrible mistake. So it
is
true. Maribel Cruz is dead.”

Paulo hesitated, then nodded. “I'm sorry, Naomi.”

As tears flooded her dark eyes, Paulo drew her into his arms. Even as a child he'd hated to see his cousin Naomi cry. Once when he and Rafe were seven, they'd inadvertently gotten separated from the rest of the family at a crowded amusement park. Rafe's parents had been frantic with worry, locating the missing boys after a desperate search that had lasted two hours. The sight of Naomi Santiago's haggard, tearstained face had made Paulo feel worse than any punishment he and Rafe could ever have received. And they'd received plenty.

“I can't believe it,” Naomi whispered, her words muffled against Paulo's chest. “How could this have happened? Who'd want to hurt Maribel?”

“That's what I intend to find out,” Paulo murmured, though he knew better than to make any promises to her. But it was so damned tempting. After all, this was the woman who'd always been like a second mother to him, bandaging his scraped elbows and knees, nursing him through colds with the same love and affection she'd showered upon her own children. It was no wonder that Paulo's first instinct was to assure her that Maribel Cruz's killer would be caught and brought to justice, even though the cop in him knew it was rarely as simple as that.

After several moments Naomi pulled back and took Paulo's hand, drawing him into the warm house. The entrance hall was massive, with a vaulted ceiling that soared over imported Italian tile floors. The scents from the gardens spilled in to mingle with the perfume of the flowers that had been arranged indoors.

“Where's Ignacio?” Paulo asked.

“On the phone in his study. People have been calling nonstop ever since we learned what happened. News travels fast.” Naomi sniffled, absently reaching up to brush Paulo's hair off his forehead. A soft, tremulous smile touched her mouth. “You need a haircut.”

“I know,” Paulo murmured, smiling a little. Even now, Naomi couldn't stop herself from mothering him.

“Have you eaten?”

“Yeah.” And because he knew she would ask, he added, “I had lasagna. Homemade.”

Naomi arched a finely sculpted brow. “Whose?”

Paulo was spared from answering when Ignacio Santiago appeared in the entryway. He was a tall, powerfully built man, well used to taking control, be it in business or family matters. His thick brown hair had turned mostly gray, and his olive complexion came courtesy of his Mexican father, who, like Ignacio, had married a beautiful African-American woman.

Ignacio's piercing whiskey-colored eyes settled unerringly on Paulo. When he spoke, his voice was a deep, rich baritone that resonated with authority. “Good, you're here. Now we can start getting some answers.”

Paulo grimaced. “You know I can only tell you guys so much without compromising the investigation.”

“We understand,” Naomi said, tucking her arm companionably through Paulo's. “Let's talk in the living room. Would you like something to drink? I could ask Lydia to bring you some coffee or sweet tea.”

“No, thanks. I'm good.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. And if I change my mind, I know where the kitchen is.”

Naomi returned Paulo's smile as they followed Ignacio from the foyer.

New visitors to the house always remarked on the sheer elegance of the furnishings. The formal living room was a decorator's dream, with its coffered ceiling, beautiful crown molding, priceless antiques, original artwork, and plush oriental carpeting. A cozy fire crackled in the marble fireplace, and on the wall above the mantel were family photographs framed in gold leaf.

Paulo wandered over, absently studying the familiar gallery of photos. His lips quirked at a picture of him and Rafe dressed in their Little League uniforms and sporting wide, gap-toothed grins as they stood with their arms slung around each other's shoulders. There were the obligatory portrait-studio photos, Ignacio and Naomi flanking their four young children against an innocuous muslin backdrop or an artificial scene from nature. In the updated versions Angela, Rebecca, and Rafe posed with their own spouses and adorable offspring. There was a shot of Daniela, the youngest of the Santiago siblings, beaming radiantly after being crowned Miss Houston ten years ago.

It was obvious to anyone looking at the collection of photographs that Ignacio and Naomi Santiago cherished their loved ones. Together they'd built a multimillion-dollar corporation that boasted a family-friendly culture, a rarity among high-powered law firms. They genuinely believed in taking care of their employees, treating them like members of the family. Which was why Maribel Cruz's death had come as such a devastating shock.

“We couldn't believe it when Ted Colston called to tell us what had happened,” Naomi said, echoing Paulo's thoughts. “Apparently he was the first person Kathleen Phillips contacted after calling 911. Ted said she was so hysterical he could hardly understand what she was saying. That poor girl.”

“Ted Colston was Maribel's supervisor,” Ignacio supplied, seated beside his wife on the antique sofa. “He's a partner at the firm.”

Paulo nodded. He'd already gleaned as much from Kathleen Phillips. “I'll need to speak to him, as well as Maribel's other coworkers.”

“Of course,” Ignacio said. “We'll make everyone available for questioning tomorrow. You can come to the office in the morning and use one of the conference rooms for interviews.”

“Thanks. That'd be great.” Paulo walked over and sat down in an adjacent armchair. “I know you both make a point of getting to know as many of your employees as possible. What can you tell me about Maribel Cruz? How well did you know her?”

“Fairly well,” Naomi answered. “As you may remember, I'm very involved in the hiring of professional staff at the firm. Three years ago I had the pleasure of interviewing Maribel as one of three finalists for the secretarial position in our labor and employment law division. I was very impressed with her, which is why we hired her. She was intelligent and dependable, a consummate professional. Ted Colston never had any complaints about her—nor did anyone else, for that matter.”

Paulo nodded. “I remember meeting her at the fund-raiser dinner two years ago.”

“That's right. You
were
there.” Naomi smiled sadly. “I was secretly hoping that you and Maribel would hit it off that night. She was such a nice young lady, and I thought you two might make a great couple.”

“Really?” Paulo was surprised by the admission. “You made me promise to be on my best behavior.”

“Because I didn't want you to be so busy flirting with other women that you'd completely overlook Maribel. She was beautiful, but she didn't advertise her assets the way
some
women do. You know the ones I'm talking about.”

Paulo chuckled dryly. “The ones I'm usually attracted to, you mean.”

“Well, yes, now that you mention it.” Naomi smiled softly. “Maribel wasn't like that. She was modest, and painfully shy when it came to men.”

Paulo thought about the way Maribel had flirted boldly with him that evening, and decided not to contradict his cousin's opinion.

“Anyway, I guess Maribel wasn't your type,” Naomi continued, a hint of reproach in her voice. “Afterward, when I casually asked her what she'd thought of you, she said you were a hunk, but you didn't seem particularly interested in her.” She gave an elegant shrug. “I decided not to push the issue.”

Ignacio shook his head, smiling wryly at Paulo. “She's conveniently forgetting the part where I told her not to meddle in your love life.”

Naomi snorted. “Since when has that ever stopped me?”

Ignacio and Paulo laughed. The Santiago women had been plotting to find the perfect mate for Paulo for as long as he could remember. In the wake of his bitter divorce they'd intensified their efforts, introducing him to a slew of friends, coworkers, clients' daughters and nieces, even “smart, attractive” women they'd met and chatted up at the hair salon. To date, their matchmaking campaign had been unsuccessful. Paulo wasn't interested in a relationship, and he was perfectly capable of finding his own bedmates.

Unbidden, an image of Tommie Purnell flashed through his mind. He wondered what his family would think of her. Would Naomi regard Tommie as one of those women who shamelessly “advertised” her assets? Would Angela, Rebecca, and Daniela have anything in common with her?

Paulo scowled at the direction of his thoughts. Why the hell should he care what his family thought of Tommie? It wasn't as if he intended to introduce her to them. Not in this lifetime.

Giving himself a hard mental shake, Paulo returned to the matter at hand. “I understand Maribel was originally from Brownsville.”

“That's right,” Ignacio confirmed. “She left home to attend college in San Antonio. She—”

“Maribel lived in San Antonio?” Paulo interrupted.

“Yes. She attended St. Mary's University. After graduation she went to work for Crandall Thorne. You've probably heard of him before—”

“Big-time criminal defense attorney? Yeah, I've heard of him. His son, Caleb, is married to a friend of mine's sister.”

“What a small world,” Naomi remarked.

“You can say that again,” Paulo murmured. “So Maribel worked at Thorne's law firm?”

“For two years,” Ignacio replied. “She liked it there, but she was unhappy in San Antonio. She said she wanted a change of pace. When she learned about the vacancy at our firm, she immediately applied for the job.”

“Although she'd only been out of college for two years,” Naomi chimed in, “we were confident that working at a top-tier law firm like Thorne and Associates had given her the skills and experience we were looking for. And we were right.”

“You said earlier that no one had ever complained about Maribel,” Paulo said.

“Not to our knowledge,” Naomi said, glancing at her husband for confirmation. Ignacio shook his head.

“So you didn't know of any conflicts she may have had with coworkers?” Paulo clarified. “No formal complaints filed against her with human resources?”

Naomi's brows furrowed together. “I don't think so. I believe that's something Ted would have shared with us. You're welcome to double-check with him tomorrow, but I'm fairly certain that the answer to your question is no. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that Maribel was a model employee.”

Ignacio was frowning at Paulo. “Are you suggesting that one of Maribel's colleagues may have killed her to settle a vendetta?”

“I'm not suggesting anything,” Paulo said mildly. “But I can't rule out the possibility. You know that.”

Ignacio and Naomi exchanged worried glances. The idea that one of their own employees could be a cold-blooded murderer was unthinkable. Paulo didn't want to believe it, either, but it was his job to explore any and all angles, no matter how unsavory.

“Kathleen told Ted that there was writing on the wall,” Naomi said faintly. “The word
liar
written in blood. Is that true, Paulo?”

He hesitated, then nodded grimly. “I'm going to ask both of you, as well as Ted Colston and Kathleen Phillips, not to discuss specifics of the case with anyone else. The press is gonna be camped out at your office building all week. Please instruct your employees not to talk to reporters. Ask them to refer all media inquiries to the Houston Police Department.”

Ignacio nodded. “Our public relations office will be issuing a statement to that effect tomorrow morning.”

“Good.” Paulo paused. “I would also recommend sending out a companywide memo to employees urging them to be vigilant at all times.”

Naomi's eyes widened fearfully. “Oh my God. You don't think this was an isolated incident? You think someone may have targeted Maribel because she works at our law firm?”