The Cold Room (28 page)

Sipping the wine, she looked around the piazza. Tried to ignore the fact that Memphis was running his fingers up and down the stem of his wineglass. What was it about this man that got under her skin? She was strangely attracted to him, even though he wasn't remotely her type. It wasn't a sexual thing, she thought, more of an intellectual curiosity. Besides, she was very, very much taken.

“What's your favorite flower?” he asked suddenly.

“What?”

“Your favorite flower. Come on, we're stuck here while FBI super-agent Baldwin lays the groundwork. Who knows how long it will take. Let's get to know one another.”

“Memphis, I don't think—”

“Come on. It will be fun. Favorite flower.”

She shook her head, took another sip of wine. “Fine. Roses.”

“I knew it.” His grin lit up his whole face.

“What?”

“Never mind. What's your favorite food?”

She sighed. “Italian anything.”

“What's your favorite color?”

“Gray.”

“Hmm. That's interesting. Because of those incredibly lovely eyes of yours?”

“Memphis—”

“Okay, okay. What's your favorite film ever?”

“Oh, come on. Who cares about that?”

“I care. Favorite film.”

She had a strange sense of déjà vu. Baldwin had asked these questions of her, a long time ago. The same setting too, over wine, a getting-to-know-you session. It felt vaguely wrong to be having the same kind of conversation with Memphis. She pushed the thought away. She'd been doing that a lot lately.

“I liked
Gladiator
. Satisfied?”

“Fits with the Italian theme nicely. Though I would have guessed something like
Breakfast at Tiffany's
.”

She shook her head. “No way. I was too pissed at Holly for abandoning Cat in the rain.”

“She came back for the poor slob, though.”

“Still, it was selfish. I don't like selfish. She just wanted attention.”

“Interesting. Moving along. Who's your favorite band?”

“How much time do you have?”

“We can have all night.” He smirked.

She rolled her eyes at him. “I don't have a favorite. I like a lot of different music.”

“Like who?”

“The Police, Josh Joplin, Death Cab for Cutie, Portis-head, Duran Duran, Evanescence, U2, all the way back to hair metal. I prefer the Stones over the Beatles, like blues more than jazz, and I'm passionate about classical. Okay?”

“But you live in Nashville. No country and western?”

She smiled at him. “Country and western? How quaint. We dropped the western a long time ago. And no. It's just not my style. Though you can never go wrong with a Johnny Cash tune.”

“Now you're mocking me.”

She just sipped from her wine.

“One more. What's your favorite book ever?”

“Oh, good grief. Eat your olives.”

“Come on, answer.” He poured them some more wine. “Favorite book.”

She thought for a moment. That was a hard one. “
Sense and Sensibility
. No,
Pride and Prejudice
.”

“You like Jane Austen?” He sounded completely shocked, to the point that she laughed out loud.

“Of course I like Austen. Who doesn't? I think I've become engaged to Mr. Darcy, anyway, just like every girl dreams.”

“I can see that. Stubborn bastard, your chap, just like your hero Mr. Darcy. Jane Austen, eh? It seems like such a girly choice. Funny, Miss Jackson, I never pegged you for a romantic.”

“Quit calling me that.” She shook out her hair, put it back up in a ponytail, off her neck. “Of course I'm a romantic. I'm a cop. I'm an idealist. I think I can change the world. How could I be anything but? And I'd prefer you not talk like that about Baldwin. He's been very good to you, and you're constantly spitting in his face. You should knock that off.”

Memphis shrugged off her suggestion. “Why do you
call him Baldwin, anyway? Why don't you call him by his first name? If you were chums from school, or a bloke, I could understand. But you're his fiancée. It seems you would be a bit more familiar.”

She struggled to explain that one, then settled for, “Because he asked me to. A long time ago. And he never asked me to call him anything else.”

“You love him.” Memphis sounded bereft, lonely. She was tempted to take his hand to comfort him, pushed that thought away.

“Yes, I do. He's, well, it sounds silly, but he's the other half of me. Until I met him, I didn't feel…complete. He's more than a lover, or a partner. Can you understand that?”

His blue eyes darkened with remembered pain. “Yes. When I lost Evan, my wife, it seemed like such a senseless thing. A car accident. Totally random. I've felt like a piece of me was missing ever since. She was pregnant, you know.”

She didn't know exactly what to say. That was more information than she wanted to know about Memphis right now. She didn't need to see his vulnerable side. It was bad enough that they
did
have so much in common—both from privileged upbringings, both choosing a field that couldn't please their parents. Both having to fight for the respect of their peers, having to work just that much harder to prove themselves. She imagined his being a viscount had created more antagonism at the Met than he would ever let on. She knew she'd faced it, and she was just a little debutante from Belle Meade. Hardly on par with the peerage.

A melancholy silence lingered around them for a moment, almost peaceful, then Memphis started the barrage again.

“Favorite animal?”

“Oh, come on. Enough about me. What about you?
What's the son of a peer doing working for the Met? It must be strange, being the son of an earl. I thought you landed gentry weren't supposed to work.”

“Ooh, someone's been doing her homework. Couldn't resist, could you?”

“Hardly. You're a little high up in the peerage to be playing with the working class, aren't you?”

“Ouch.” Memphis grimaced, then said softly, “Evan insisted I have a real job. Wouldn't marry me otherwise. Ever hear the term morganatic?”

“No.”

“Some people call it a left-hand marriage. It's an old term, reserved for marriages of rank. It's when someone of breeding marries well beneath their station. Like your Mr. Darcy.”

“Okay. What does that have to do with you?”

“Evan's father wasn't a peer. It bothered her tremendously that mine was.”

He paused, his gaze searching, like he could look right into her very soul. She felt trapped under his gaze; she couldn't look away. She could tell he wanted to tell her something, felt instinctively that it was important to understanding who the man really was, and what he wanted with her. What the hell?

Then he looked away, and the moment was gone.

“You were saying?” Taylor said.

He looked at her, then waved his hand in the air in front of them. “I'm showing off. My title means nothing to me, though it was always important to my parents. Being a viscount isn't all it's cracked up to be. But thankfully, my father never pressured me to be like him. He's quite philanthropic, you know. I'm more like you, an idealist. He supported me joining the Met, helped me get a foot in the door as a matter of fact. My mother, well, she was rather peeved.”

“I love it. Your parents really are an earl and a countess.”

He flashed her that cocksure grin. “Well, there's the illusion for you. All we have is several thousand acres in the Scottish Highlands and a draughty castle nestled up to the moors. Cobwebby old thing, impossible to heat properly, the roof leaks constantly, the taxes are crippling, and if you can actually find a bit of ground flat enough to play a chukka of polo, the chances are it's a quagmire for eight months out of every twelve. The grouse and pheasant are plentiful, though, the sheep outnumber the people and the trees outnumber the sheep, so there you have it. But it all gets rather old once you've been doing it forever.”

“How very Brontë of you,” Taylor said.

Memphis barked a laugh, then let a sly smile linger on his lips. “Shall I call you Cathy, then?”

She laughed. “You most certainly shall not, braggart. Scotland, huh? Why is your accent so…well, you don't sound like any Scot I've met.”

“I received a proper education.”

She laughed again. “You're just a plain old snob. How'd you get saddled with a name like Memphis, anyway?”

“My dear mamma, and the chaps at school. Mamma was awfully keen on Elvis Presley. Actually took me to Graceland when I was about eight. I came back home, talked everyone's ear off about Memphis. Couple of the chaps started making fun. Suddenly I was that Memphis boy. By the time I was ten, everyone took to calling me that. It stuck.”

“Wow. You realize as a native Nashvillian, I've been born and bred to loathe all things Memphis?”

“Good lord, Miss Jackson, are you teasing me?”

She waved him off. “I told you to stop calling me that. Call me Jackson, or Taylor, but knock off the Miss shit.
And of course I'm not kidding. I never kid about important stuff.”

“So, Jackson. I've been dying to know. I'm betting you aren't a candlelight, keep it gentle, missionary kind of girl?” He smiled, raised his eyebrow suggestively.

Okay, that was enough. “Screw you, Memphis.”

“You've got quite a mouth on you. Do a sailor proud.” But he smiled, and she knew he was teasing her. For some reason, it didn't bother her as much. They laughed together, easy for the first time.

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, sipping the wine, looking at everything but each other. Finally, Memphis scooted his chair closer to her. He set his hand on the table, inches from hers, leaned close. He waited until she looked him in the eye, waited for those little zings of recognition and attraction that skittered between them. She could get lost in that aching ocean of blue if she weren't careful.

“I could wake you up inside, Taylor. Bring you to life. All you have to do is give me the chance.”

He said it so quietly that at first she didn't think she'd heard the words aloud, only that they'd appeared in her consciousness.

“What?” she said, sharper than she intended.

He moved fractionally closer, his hand reaching out to play with a bit of hair that had come loose from her ponytail. She was mesmerized for a moment, watching the slow, stroking movement of his finger on her hair. Like a cobra, hypnotizing a mongoose.

It was inevitable, really. She was only slightly surprised when he settled his mouth on hers. The kiss was soft, and lingering. His tongue flicked at the edge of her lip, and she was shocked to feel her mouth open, the warmth of the tongues touching. One kiss. Who cared about one little
kiss? It could go on, and on, if she'd let it. Instead, she got her mind back and pushed him away, flustered.

“What in the hell are you doing?” she demanded, a little unnerved at how breathless she sounded.

He looked both hurt and embarrassed. “Nothing. Never mind. I've misread the signals. I…I must go. I need to make a phone call. I'll be back at the hotel if you need me.”

He stood abruptly and left without saying goodbye, just walked away into the Strozzi.

Leaving her sitting at the table wondering just exactly what had just happened. He could wake her up inside? Granted, she felt a tiny pull toward him, some base, chemical thing. The kiss—oh, she didn't want to think about that right now.

She couldn't help herself. She started analyzing. Wasn't that what life was about? Aren't we all supposed to feel those twinges toward the opposite sex, even when we're in a stable, loving, happy relationship? That's just biology, propagation of the species. Perfectly natural, healthy even. It's whether you acted on them that made you a good person, or a bad person. Moments like these defined you.

Taylor was quickly grasping that Memphis Highsmythe would be perfectly happy to compromise her morals, and her body and her life. All she had to do was give him the go sign, and he'd be on her like a wolf on a lamb.

He wouldn't be gentle. She could feel the flame inside him, the raging inferno that he kept bottled inside, hidden carefully behind the panther grace with which he moved. Just the brief moment of his lips on hers had made that clear. Something was driving his need, and she suspected it was despair over the broken pieces of his marriage, the loss of his wife and unborn child. She could understand that. She'd gotten involved with hurt men in the past, with men who needed. Need was akin to desperation, and
while the sex was always fantastic, the emotional toll was too much for her to bear.

Baldwin didn't have that edge of desperation to him. He was solid inside, not pieces of flickering fire.

She shook her head. What in the name of hell are you thinking about, Taylor?

Baldwin. She needed Baldwin. One kiss and he would ground her, grind out all the memories of Memphis and his blue eyes. Of his stupid soft lips.

She paid the check and stormed out of the café, heading into the city. Damn you, Memphis.

Bring me to life. I'd like to see you try that.

 

Baldwin watched the scene play out. Memphis was making his move. To Taylor's credit, once the immediate shock of the pass was over, she pushed him away.

He'd been expecting this. He could read the desire coming off of Memphis like Morse code, knew he'd be making a play for Taylor's affections soon enough. He couldn't help feeling shocked, though. Blatant and utter disrespect for their relationship. Unless Taylor had been giving him the go-ahead…no, she wouldn't. She loved him, not some pretty, moneyed playboy.

Memphis stalked off. Taylor tossed some Euros on the table and was coming right at him. He ducked back around the side of the building, then started walking like he didn't know she was going to bump into him.