Something's Cooking (19 page)

“You won't listen, will you?” he asked.

“No.”

He reached his hand toward her, lightly touching her hair, and then rested it against the back of her head, its slight pressure bringing her closer to him. His lips brushed hers, he drew back, and then he kissed her again. His hand moved to her cheek as he lifted her face, holding it mere inches away, gazing into her eyes. His lips parted as if to speak, but he couldn't. When he finally found his voice, it was husky, filled with tenderness. “Angel,” he whispered, “the well-named little Angel.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, put her arms around his shoulders, and lay her head against his neck. His arms held her close as he kissed her hair and forehead, his fingers running over her body and finally grasping her hair. He gently
brought her head back, and his lips found hers in a long kiss, a real kiss.

He broke it off and searched her face. “I've got to send you back to my place.”

“There's a couple hours until dawn.”

Despite himself, she saw a hint of a smile in his granite expression. “Let's go inside,” he said.

“Your room?”

“This way, m'lady, or—” his eyes sparkled mischievously as he draped an arm over her shoulders and tucked her against his side “—should I call you Star?”

“A real comedian, aren't you?” She scowled, snuggling beside him where she knew she belonged.

He chuckled to himself as he led her to a cheap hotel and up the stairs to his room.

“Will you stop laughing!” she said finally. “It wasn't that funny.”

“That's not what I'm laughing about.”

“No? What then?”

“I don't think I should tell you.”

“Why not?”

“You'll be insulted.”

“Insulted? That's nonsense. I never get insulted!”

“All right,” he said. “Angie, for a hooker, your price is really cheap.”

She let out a squawk of outrage, and he collapsed on the bed, laughing so hard he had to hold his stomach. She climbed on top of him. “Laugh at me, will you! You should be taught a lesson.”

He laughed harder, rolling to his side. “By you and what army?”

She tugged at him until he rolled onto his back. His laughter stopped, replaced by an all-too-sexy smile as she began to unbutton his shirt. “I should simply take that taxi you threatened to put me in,” she said. “But that would punish me, too.”

He lifted his shoulders off the bed as she removed his shirt and undershirt, and then he lay down again. Still sitting on his hips, she ran her hands over his chest.

“Leaving me would be a punishment to you, too, would it?” he asked, his fingers inching up her thighs to the hem of her miniskirt. “Hearing an admission like that'll make me swell-headed.”

“As I sit here, Inspector Smith, I can tell something's getting swollen—and your head has nothing to do with it.”

He laughed. “Ah, Angie love, whatever will I do once you've gone from me?”

Her heart twisted as if it would break in two. She could feel her face crumble. She stood up quickly, needing to separate herself from him, to not look at him, not touch him, in order to regain control. She looked at herself in the mirror that hung over the dresser against the far wall. With the clothes and makeup, she looked like a clown—an ugly, garish clown.

He approached her, and she turned away, lowering her head so he couldn't see her face. He placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her neck. She felt lost as she allowed her head to loll back against his shoulder. He ran his hands over
her cheeks, her throat, her shoulders, and then cupped her breasts as his breath blew hot against her neck.

Her breasts grew taut and hard under his fingers, and she pressed back against him. He slid his hands along her sides, her hips, then under the brief mini she wore. Her body went weak. “I don't want to leave you, Paavo,” she whispered. “Not ever.” Her eyes shut. She could feel his arousal pressing against her.

“Soon you'll be free of worry and fear, Angie. Free to do as you please.”

She turned in his arms, keeping her arms tight against her sides, her voice low. “I know what I please. You. I love you.”

“Don't Angie.”

“Paavo!” She touched his hair. Her hand went to his face, his bent nose, his lips. But his countenance was hard.

“Don't.”

She squared her shoulders and moved away from him. “It's all right,” she said. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything.”

He took her hands. “You have a million and one rich men after you. You don't really want one poor cop.”

She shut her eyes. “I don't?”

“You'll forget about me in a matter of days—hours, maybe.”

That stung. “You really think I'm so shallow, Paavo?”

His eyes were so soft, so caring, her anger at him vanished. “You live in a sunny glow, Angie.
I'd only cast a shadow over everything you know and love.” As he lifted the palms of her hands to his lips, tears filled her eyes. This would be goodbye, then. He had made up his mind. This was where it would end. Crane would be caught, and she'd be free to go back to the life she had led before this happened.

She dropped her arms to her sides, and he slowly slid his hands down her arms until they caught her fingers and interlaced.

She raised her face and he lowered his, tipping his head to one side so that their lips met. She closed her eyes, her tears spilling over, her fingers tightening on his until they ached. His kiss was soft, light as he traced her lips with his tongue.

Her mouth opened as she swayed toward him. He pulled her against him as his tongue plunged deep. She could feel the heat rising in her body, building a fire more intense than anything she had ever experienced. Where her covered breasts met his bare chest, she felt seared.

Still holding her wrists, he rained kisses from her throat, to her shoulders, to her breasts. Then he unfastened her skirt and let it drop. He placed his hands under the neckline of her leotard and slid it off her shoulders.

His eyes met hers, and his look softened. Ever so slowly, he undressed her completely, as if every movement was precious to him. He traced his fingers over her back and her stomach, as if trying to memorize them with his fingertips. He lifted her arms to his shoulders as he caressed
her, his hands increasingly probing, increasingly intimate.

“Wait,” she whispered. She undressed him, then, much as he had done, she traced her fingers over his body and followed her fingers with her tongue. She heard his low moan of pleasure as she reached the center of his desire.

She felt him throb as he suddenly pulled her up, lifted her into his arms, and then carried her to the bed and gently placed her on it. She tried to etch his face forever in her heart.

He kissed her eyelids, forcing her eyes shut, and then returned hungrily to her mouth.

She opened herself to him, and he thrust deeply as if he couldn't get enough of her, as if he needed enough to last a lifetime. She gave herself to him completely, with no holding back. The wonder was, as much as she gave, he returned in kind.

Paavo held open
the door to the taxi cab. Angie was dressed in her slacks and Paavo's army jacket once again, her “hooker clothes” left behind in the waste basket in his room. She was ready to leave, but not yet willing.

She fought the sudden tightness in her throat and the pressure against her eyes as she approached the cab.

“Wait.” He reached toward her and his fingertips lightly brushed against her cheek. “You be careful.”

“Sure, I have nothing to worry about, right?” She couldn't stop the bitter tone in her words. “George is dead, so the newspaper office is safe. You'll soon arrest Crane, so when I do go back to my apartment, I won't need Rico or Joey anymore. Everything's coming up roses….”

“Just stay at my place until it's all over and we're sure we've got the right man.”

She looked into his eyes, her heart filled with regret that they had come to this. “Of course,” she whispered.

He coiled his fingers into the back of her hair, his arm resting on her shoulder. The blueness of his eyes was clouded, and his voice deep and soft as he spoke. “I'm not arresting Crane yet. We've got nothing to hold him on. But I'll watch him and see who he leads us to. As soon as we have him and I'm sure your apartment is safe, I'll send a squad car by to take you home.”

She lowered her eyes a moment and then raised them again to his. “I understand,” she said. She wanted to say more, anything that would convince him he was wrong about the two of them. But she knew no words could penetrate his belief that her feelings for him were ephemeral, simply a result of the current situation. And his feelings for her? He had never spoken words of love; perhaps there were none to be spoken.

She climbed into the cab. She turned to close the door, but Paavo held it ajar, as he stood watching her.

“Good-bye, Paavo,” she said, her voice hushed. She waited, the silence hanging between them, and then he shut the door and backed away.

 

Later that morning, Angie made the usual calls to her mother and sisters. She didn't have much to say. Serefina was back in Palm Springs with Salvatore and, as usual, asked about Paavo. Angie
said he was fine, working hard. Then she hung up, feeling worse than ever.

She was restless. Something about Paavo's plan was wrong, very wrong. Whatever it was had bothered her for days, but it was always just beyond her comprehension.

She checked her watch. It was early afternoon. Paavo was probably asleep again, knowing he'd have a long night of Crane-watching. Angie, though, was keyed up. She paced around the house, but it didn't help.

Finally, she decided to go down to the
Bay Area Shopper
to find out what was happening there. Paavo had told her to stay in his house, but she hadn't listened to him before. Why start now? Besides, she hadn't turned in a column since the one from Bodega Bay and, in fact, didn't even know if she still had a job.

 

As she pushed open the revolving doors at the entrance to the building that housed the
Shopper
, she realized what it was that had bothered her for so long about the police department's explanation of what was going on. George was innocent.

Paavo and all the others were so sure that because George had requested Crane's recipes from her, and then George was killed, he must have been involved. But they hadn't known George.

The police had wrapped up a neat little package and she had gone along with it. After all,
George was dead, he couldn't be hurt by it. But the premise was wrong, and she—and others—could be very hurt by such a mistake. Here, in this building, George's murderer had lurked that terrible night, and perhaps he—or she—was still here. Angie agreed with the police that the case involved the
Shopper
and her recipes, so the key had to be in these offices. She would have to find it on her own.

She rode the elevator to the second floor. A shudder rippled through her as she realized how empty George's desk would seem, but she straightened her shoulders and held her head high.

Every eye in the room seemed to be on her as she walked through the double doors to the main office. That was good, she wanted lots of attention. The police were off the track, and the killer felt safe. Maybe if Angie made enough noise, whoever the contact at the
Shopper
was would get nervous and give Crane a signal. Then Paavo would at least be able to catch Crane in the act of doing something other than parading around the Tenderloin as a transvestite.

If her plan worked, then whoever was behind this was going to think Angie was on her way to meet her loyal fan Edward G. Crane. George's killer had to know about Crane and might be nervous at the idea of her meeting him. Paavo would probably notice if someone among the
Shopper
personnel contacted Crane.

She plunged into her act, not allowing herself to debate what she was doing. If she did, she'd
surely see the flaws in her argument and the danger she could be subjecting herself to. But then, wasn't she in danger, anyway, if the guilty person wasn't apprehended?

“Hello there, Bill,” she said to the startled copy boy, who stood surrounded by a group of coworkers. Her gaze swept over them quickly, and Bill's ears turned bright red as he croaked out a short hello.

The group around him included another boy as youthful as Bill, a stooped, white-haired man who stared at her with a vacant expression, and several others. “I'm so excited, Bill,” Angie continued.

This made Bill stand a little straighter and his friends huddle closer. “Really?” he said.

“Yes. I'm going to meet my biggest fan, the number one contributor to my column.”

“That's really neat.”

“Isn't it? His name is Edward Crane.”

“Oh.”

“See you later, love,” she said as she breezed off. That would give his friends plenty to talk about.

There, that wasn't so hard, she decided, quite sure what had passed was just an exercise. No one in that group could possibly have anything to do with murder, could they?

“Mrs. Cruz!” she cried, walking up to Jon Preston's secretary.

“What a surprise, Angie,” the older woman said. “We've missed you.”

“I've got such exciting news!” she practically shouted, catching the attention of the women in
the typing pool. She then launched into her plans to meet Crane and was given a thorough dressing down by Mrs. Cruz for being so foolish as to even think about meeting a strange man—especially since George had been murdered by an unknown assailant. The secretary told Angie she should call the police immediately. Edward G. Crane's recipes were clearly those of a perverted mind.

“What is going on?” Jon Preston peered out his office door. He sounded irritated at the noise level in the outer office. When he saw Angie, his eyes widened and he ran his palm over the blond hair above his ear, as if to assure himself it was still perfectly in place.

Mrs. Cruz repeated Angie's story to him, saving Angie from having to go through it again.

“—and I told her it was sheer madness to go through with this,” she concluded.

“You should listen to good advice, Miss Amalfi,” Mr. Preston said, fingering his tie. “There are strange goings-on here.” He went back into his office and shut the door.

One last stop. She went down to the pressmen's area. Everyone was busy at work since the paper was due out the next day.

She found Mr. O'Malley, the foreman of the group, a beer-bellied, balding man who was sweating profusely. “Hello, there,” she said loudly, interrupting everyone. The typesetters looked up, then down again, and continued to work. It wasn't often one of the writers came down there, but they didn't appear impressed.

“Yes, ma'am,” O'Malley said, acknowledging
her presence as he dabbed his brow with a once-white handkerchief.

“I just wanted you to know my column will be starting up again.”

He scowled. “It's up to the people upstairs to get things down to me on time. I'm not holding up my paper.”

“I know, I just—”

“Good, then. They do their job, I do mine.” He turned around.

“But—” Angie had to shout to make herself heard over the machinery. “But I'm going to meet my best fan.”

O'Malley turned toward her again, looking at her as if she were crazy. He said nothing.

“Edward Crane, my biggest fan,” she repeated. “He's going to give me more recipes.”

O'Malley remained silent. Then he took a step toward her, his barrel chest puffing as his face tightened. “Lady, I don't care if you're going to meet the Pope.”

She turned and hurried out of there, her face burning. At least I tried, she thought, as she rode the elevator up to the main offices.

She sat down at a desk with a heavy sigh. They all looked innocent, every one of them, but she knew George was innocent! Nothing made sense. Why would someone kill George and want her dead, too? Sam gave her recipes, but Crane wrote them. Crane must have known about George's murder and then gone into hiding. Was he the murderer, or another potential victim?

Her head hurt. Maybe what she needed to do
was simply go back to writing her columns and let the detectives do the detecting. But at the same time, her plan hadn't been a bad one. Someone was behind this mess, and she needed to find out who that was. If she gave it more time, that someone might crack.

She rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter—such a quaint machine!—and began to compose what she hoped would be a humorous column about the effect of saffron on sex appeal and red dye number three as an acne deterrent. Words glided from her fingertips, and she felt pleased that all the recent trouble hadn't squelched her creativity.

“Oh, you're still here, Miss Amalfi.” Jon Preston stood just outside the door of his office.

She looked up. The room was empty; she hadn't realized how engrossed she had become, nor how late the hour was. Her night in the Tenderloin had her internal clock out of kilter.

“I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was past quitting time.”

He walked toward her carefully, as if sidestepping specks of dirt on the carpet. The man was meticulous, with never a thread out of place. “It's quite all right. I'm surprised to see a young, attractive woman take such an interest in her job these days.”

Angie leaned back in her chair. “Really? These days I would have thought quite the opposite.”

He laughed, revealing a perfect set of teeth. “Forgive me, Miss Amalfi, I seem to have struck an antifeminist chord. Purely unintentional, be
lieve me.” He sighed, patting his sideburns before continuing. “George—poor George—told me many times that you were quite exceptional at your work.”

Now he had Angie's attention. “How kind!”

“Oh, yes, he was all heart. Unfortunately, now that he's gone, there's no one to do his job.”

“You haven't filled it temporarily?”

“I'm doing both jobs, Miss Amalfi. May I call you Angie?”

“Oh, yes, sir.” She was taken aback; Mr. Preston was never familiar with his employees.

“I'd like to ask a favor of you, Angie, if I might?”

“Why, of course, Mr. Preston.”

“Would you be my feature editor? Temporarily, of course. You do have a good eye for the offbeat and humorous, even though you're not a real newspaper type. Actually, you might work out at it quite well. Then the job would be yours permanently, if you were interested.”

Her jaw fell. “Me?”

“I would appreciate it greatly. Got to keep things shipshape, you know, and that requires a top-notch first mate. I'm not one to run the day-to-day operation. Not my style. I prefer publishing to editing. What do you say, Angie? For George's sake?”

“For George?” Her head was spinning. Feature editor of the
Bay Area Shopper
. Could she handle it? Damn right she could! She was thrilled.

“I think your offer is overwhelming, Mr. Pres
ton. Since, as you say, it is just temporary, I would be willing to do the job, just to help you out until you find a permanent replacement for George.”

“Wonderful! Now, let me take you to dinner to celebrate!” He extended his hand to help her out of her chair.

She should go to Paavo's house in case he called. She took Preston's proffered hand and stood. “I'm sorry, but I—”

“Really, we must. I have lots of information and materials to give you. The sooner, the better and, frankly, I'm hungry.” He lifted her jacket off the back of her chair and held it for her to slip on. She did so and then glanced at her watch.

“Won't it be a little late? I mean, won't your wife mind your talking business in the evening?”

“I was divorced last year.” He smoothed the jacket over her shoulders, placed his hand against the small of her back, and guided her out the door. Her uneasiness grew.

The man was cloyingly well mannered, hovering over her as if ready to fulfill her smallest wish, while producing a constant stream of chatter as they rode down the elevator to the employee parking lot where his oversized Mercedes waited.

They went to an intimate and understated haute cuisine restaurant, where her casual Oscar de la Renta dress didn't appear out of place. He ordered dinner after carefully quizzing her about her feelings on each dish. When she looked at him with some exasperation, he said, “Some meals must be memorable, Angie,” which struck her as rather odd.

The food was probably quite good, but she had no appetite and picked at it with her fork. As excited as she was about her new position, she couldn't keep her mind off Paavo. She wondered what he was doing, where he was—if he was safe. Had he arrested Crane yet? Was he home? What would he say when she told him she would be an editor?

Finally, she put down her fork. “I'm very tired, Mr. Preston. I must be terrible company. I really think I should go home. Perhaps we can continue our discussion tomorrow?”