The Crush (44 page)

He had been tricked by her. During his trial she had noticed his attraction and had played games with him. She had used her cool, aloof demeanor to taunt him and make herself desirable.

Well he didn't want her anymore. She had proved herself unworthy.

Oh, he still wanted to fuck her. And when he did, he would make it hurt. By the time he got through with her she would understand that nobody toyed with Lozada and got away with it. Maybe he would force Threadgill to watch. Oh, yes.

Threadgill would pay dearly for taking what Lozada had claimed as his.

"Mr. Smith?"

"Yes?"

"I asked if you had prearranged financing."

He'd almost forgotten that the realtor was there.

He turned to her and thought seriously about snapping her neck. Quickly and painlessly she would be dead and he would have let off some steam. But he had never let spontaneity overrule sound judgment. He was better disciplined than that.

Answering as the mild-mannered Mr. Smith, he said, "Financing would be no problem."

"Excellent." She launched into the next phase of her sales pitch.

He would have to wrap up this appointment soon.

From the safety of the van he had seen everything he needed to see. Twilight had turned into full-blown darkness, his favorite time. He looked forward to the busy night ahead.

"How was your steak?"

"Perfect."

"Glad you liked it." Wick propped his forearms on the edge of the table and rolled the glass of wine between his palms. "The Merlot was a good choice."

"Yes, it was."

"Can't say much for the glass." His collection of mismatched glassware hadn't included wine balloons, so they'd drunk from juice glasses.

"I didn't mind."

He swirled the ruby liquid in the glass.

"Know what I think?"

"What?"

"If this were a blind date, it would be a bust."

She smiled ruefully. "It's hard to make casual conversation when you're on display. I feel like a goldfish."

They had sat out on the deck while the steaks were grilling and the potatoes were baking on the coals.

They had sipped wine, said little, listened to the swish of the surf.

The glider had squeaked each time Rennie's bare foot gave it a gentle push. Those shorts made her legs look about nine miles long.

There were small dots of salt on her thighs where splashes of seawater had dried. Wick's attention had often strayed there.

A young dog had wandered up to the deck, no doubt attracted by the aroma of the cooking meat.

She got down on his level, scratched him behind the ears, and laughed the laugh of a child when he tried to lick her face. She played with him until his master whistled sharply. He charged off obediently, but then stopped and looked back at her wistfully, as though he hated to leave her, before disappearing into the darkness to rejoin his owner.

About every five minutes the undercovers would check in with Peterson, one by one. He could hear them in his earpiece. If Lozada was anywhere on Galveston Island, he was remaining invisible.

He wasn't registered at any hotel, motel, or bed-and-breakfast. Wick wasn't surprised.

Peterson gave him signals to send them.

"If y'all are okay in there, scratch your nose." Put your right hand in your pocket.

Stretch. Stuff like that. But it reached the point where he could tune out the voices in his ear. If an emergency arose, he would react appropriately, but for the time being he minded the bacon-wrapped filets and spent the rest of the time looking at Rennie.

When the steaks were done, they brought the meal indoors. Once while they were eating, her bare foot had made contact with his calf beneath the table.

She hadn't excused herself for the accidental touch, which was progress of a sort. But she hadn't acknowledged it either. She pretended it hadn't happened.

She had discovered a yellowed candle in a drawer and had placed it on a saucer in the center of the table to create a romantic atmosphere and help obscure the ugliness of his kitchen. But the only thing the candlelight really enhanced and made look good was Rennie.

When her hair was loose, like now, she had a habit of combing her fingers through it. She wasn't even conscious of doing it, but he was conscious of it because he liked watching it sift through her fingers and fall back onto her shoulders. Liquid moonlight, he thought, and wondered when he'd become a poet.

The candlelight deepened the triangular shadow at the base of her throat and the cleft between her breasts. Throughout the evening he had tried to ignore the shape they gave the fitted black knit top, but some things were beyond human endurance, and for him, that was one.

The meal had been satisfying and tasty. His stomach was full, but another hunger gnawed at him. He should have known better than to kiss her again. It had been unnecessary. It had been overkill. Their little sunset stroll in the surf would have been just as romantic a scene without the kiss. The only thing it had accomplished was to make him want her with an ache that was damn near killing him.

She drained the wine from her juice glass and looked across at him. "You're staring."

"I'm trying to get my fill."

"Your fill?"

"Of you," he said. "Of looking at you. Because once this is over, however it comes down, you're going to return to your life, and I'm not going to be in it. Am I, Rennie?"

Slowly, she shook her head no.

"That's why I'm staring."

She pushed back her chair and picked up her place setting, but as she passed him on her way to the sink he reached out and caught her arm.

"Relax, Rennie. You may get lucky.
Lozada could kill me."

She yanked her arm free, carried the dishes to the sink, and set them down hard. "That was a horrible thing to say."

"You'd care?"

"Of course I'd care!"

"Oh, right, right. You're in the lifesaving business, aren't you? Which I find odd ... since you court death."

She laughed shortly. "I court death?"

"All the time. You're reckless. You take unnecessary risks."

"What in the hell are you talking about?"

"No alarm system in either of your houses.
Downright foolish for a woman who lives alone.
Riding bareback and jumping fences. Dangerous no matter how skilled an equestrian you are.
Going to places in the world where every day is a field day to the Grim Reaper. You flirt with him, Rennie."

"You've had too much wine."

He stood and joined her near the sink. "You don't live life, Rennie, you defy it."

"You're either drunk or crazy."

"No, I'm right. Self-sufficient Rennie, that's you. No friends or confidantes.

No socializing. No nothing except those goddamn invisible walls you erect every time someone gets too close.

"You even keep your patients at arm's length. Isn't that why you chose surgery over another field of medicine? Because your patients are unconscious? You can treat them, heal them, without any emotional involvement on your part."

Peterson asked into the earpiece, "Hey, Threadgill, everything all right in there?"

"He's famous for losing it," Thigpen said.

"I'd like to know what he's saying to her," the policewoman said. "I don't like his stance."

Wick ignored them. "You shower affection on your horses. You turn to mush over a puppy dog. You mourn a wild animal you were forced to put down. But if you make skin contact with another human being, you either ignore it or run from it."

"That's not true."

"Oh, it's not?"

"No."

"Prove it."

He bent over the table and blew out the candle, pitching the kitchen into darkness. He yanked out the earpiece, then, curving an arm around her waist, pulled her against him.

"Wick, no."

"Prove me wrong." His lips hovered above hers, giving her an opportunity to protest again.

When she didn't, he kissed her. Tempering his anger, he gently rubbed her lips apart then went seeking her tongue with his. When they touched, he deepened the kiss. He fit himself into the vee of her thighs.

She pulled her mouth free and turned her face away. "Wick ..."

He trailed kisses down the column of her throat, lightly nipping her skin with his teeth.

She placed her hands on his shoulders and dug her fingers in. "Please."

"I could say the same thing, Rennie."

He lowered his head and kissed the swell of her breast above her neckline.

"No." She pushed him hard.

Wick's arms fell to his sides. He backed away from her. Their harsh breathing soughed through the darkness. He heard Peterson cursing him through the earpiece where it dangled on his chest.

He tried to keep his anger in check, but arousal had fueled it and there was no putting it down yet. With a distinct edge, he said, "I just don't get it."

"What don't you get?"

"Why you keep saying no."

"I have the option of saying no."

A growl of frustration rose out of his throat. "It's so goddamn good, Rennie.

What's not to like?"

"I do like it."

Thinking he hadn't heard her correctly, he reached for the wall switch and turned on the lights.

"What?"

She blinked against the sudden glare, then met his bewildered gaze. She said huskily, "I never said I didn't like it."

He stared at her with such profound incomprehension that it didn't even register with him that a cell phone was ringing until she asked,

"Is that yours?"

He groped for the phone clipped to his waistband and then shook his head. "Must be yours."

She went to get her phone. Wick reinserted the earpiece and caught the tail end of a blistering condemnation. He switched on the microphone.

"Calm down, Peterson. We're fine."

"What's going on, Threadgill?"

"Nothing. A little electrical problem when we tried to turn on the lights. A fuse or something."

"Everything's all right?"

"Yeah, I'm about to wash the dishes and Rennie's talking on her--"

He broke off when he turned and read the expression on her face. "Hold on, guys.

Someone just called her on her cell."

She was holding on to the small phone with both hands. She listened for possibly fifteen seconds more, then slowly lowered it and disconnected.

"Lozada?" Wick asked. She nodded.

"Son of a--what did he say?"

"He's here."

"He told you that?"

She raised her hand to her throat in a subconsciously self-protective gesture.

"He didn't have to. He let me know that he had seen us."

"Are you guys getting this?" Wick asked into the mike. After receiving acknowledgments through the earpiece, he motioned for Rennie to proceed.

"He said that I should wear black more often. That it was a good color for me. He asked if you could cook a decent steak."

"He's that close?"

"Apparently."

"What else?"

She looked at him meaningfully, with appeal.

Slowly he raised his hand and switched off the mike. There would be hell to pay later, but he was more concerned about Rennie than he was about having the Galveston PD miffed at him.

"They're raising bloody hell in my ear, but they can't hear you. Go ahead. Tell me what he said."

"He said ... vulgar things. About you and me.

U. Together."

"Like the things he said earlier today?"

"Worse. He said that before I ... before I

..." She crossed her arms over her middle and hugged her elbows. "Paraphrasing, he said that before I become too enamored of you, I should ask how you fucked up the investigation of your brother's murder."

"She was too embarrassed to give it to me word for word. I imagine it was awfully crude."

Oren was so tired his eyeballs hurt. He massaged them as he listened to Wick's account of Lozada's most recent contact with them.

"He brought up the investigation of Joe's murder and how I botched it because, like earlier today when he lied about Rennie and him being lovers, he's trying to cause a rift between us."

"Is it working?"

"Not in that sense, but we're both a little frayed around the edges. She's in the shower now. Her second since we got here. She's clean, I'll give her that."

"I'm more interested in Lozada's whereabouts than in Dr. Newton's hygiene. None of those undercovers spotted him?"

"Neither hide nor hair."

"How could he get close enough to watch you cooking steaks without them seeing him? Binoculars, I guess."