Too Many Cooks (18 page)

“They were for business reasons. For my work.”

“Work, Inspector? Or were you just hiding from life?”

He stepped toward her, but she turned and walked away.

 

Angie splashed herself liberally with perfume and put on a slinky black satin jumpsuit with a long past-the-navel gold zipper. It was eight o'clock.

If she knew Paavo at all, if he really cared about her at all, he'd come by to see her tonight. If he could stay away after this afternoon, if he didn't care enough to try to patch up this San Andreas fault-size rift between them, it was truly over.

She put Wagner's
Tristan and Isolde
on the stereo. The long, sad, emotional opera about star-crossed lovers suited her mood perfectly.

At eleven, she made a fresh pot of coffee. Paavo would probably need it, if he showed up.

What would she do if he didn't stop by? How could she ever let go?

But if he didn't still care about her, he wouldn't have acted like Cave Man Clyde at Wielund's today. He cared. He had to.

By midnight, she knew she'd been wrong.

She removed the sexy jumpsuit and changed into her comfortable old football jersey nightshirt and washed off her make-up. She shut off the lights, got into bed, and stared at the ceiling.

At 12:30 A.M. she got up again, made herself a cup of warm milk, and took it back to her bedroom along with a book about San Francisco's rough Barbary Coast during the 1880s and 1890s, when people were shanghaied right off the city streets. All in all, it sounded like child's play compared to these days.

She put the milk and the book on her nightstand, got into bed, then sat back against the pillows. Her
head bumped the wooden headboard. She got out of bed, plumped and turned the pillows on their ends so they stood upright against the headboard, and got into bed again. Comfort. She reached for her book and milk, and the pillows fell over. When she sat back, her spine rapped the headboard sharply.

She leaned forward, knees bent, and wrapped her arms around her legs. It took all her strength not to cry.

At one o'clock in the morning, the knock she'd waited for all evening sounded. She sprang up and fairly floated to the door. There was no reason to feel happy, she warned herself. He might be coming by to quiz her about Mark Dustman, for all she knew. Still, the spring in her step was unmistakable.

He stood there with his sports jacket unbuttoned, his tie and shirt collar loose, looking more weary than a human being should. But his blue eyes brightened as they took her in, and the granite-hard look he wore so often eased. She stared at him, afraid she might, as she did so often, say the wrong thing and drive him away again. So she said nothing.

He leaned one hand against the door frame. “I know it's late.”

“Come in.” She let go of the door and stepped back, letting him enter the apartment. He seemed to fill the room, and to fill the emptiness she felt inside.

He walked in, and the uncertain pause in his steps made her catch her breath. She had never known Paavo to be unsure. What were they doing to each other? Why were they wasting so much time?

“Coffee?” she asked, standing before him. “Or maybe you're hungry? Would you like a sandwich? An
omelet, maybe?” She bit her bottom lip. “I could see what I've got. Or we can call out. Pizza, maybe? Or Chinese?”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Oh…Well, do you want to wait a moment? I know I look a sight.”

As she turned to go to the bedroom and put on something more enticing, he stepped closer to her, putting his hand on her chin and lifting her face to see it better. “You look fine.”

She trembled at his touch, her body suddenly alive. “Fine?” She tried to sound casual. “Little old ladies look ‘fine,' Paavo!” Her voice was breathless.

He dropped his hand and gave a slight smile. “I'm not staying. I just stopped by to make sure you were all right.”

She sat down on the Hepplewhite. “Have a seat, please.”

He sat on the sofa. “Neither one of us was exactly on our best behavior this afternoon.”

She steepled her hands, then pressed them to her lips. “I can't imagine what your new partner must think of me! I pray I never see him again.”

Paavo grinned. “Actually, he was quite impressed with your lung power. He said he hadn't heard anything that loud since a Grateful Dead concert at the Oakland Coliseum.”

She covered her face with her hands. “Oh, God.”

He put his hand on her knee. “It's all right.”

Her breath caught. Her skin felt seared, as if his hand were a branding iron. As she glanced up, their gazes met.

He pulled back his hand and stood. “I should go.”

She stood and nodded.

“Hiding from life, hmm?” he said, repeating the charge she'd hurled at him that afternoon; then he walked toward the door.

She took his hand, stopping him. “Yes, until you learn to trust someone besides Aulis.”

She could see him bristle. “I've trusted other people,” he said.

“Oh? Who?”

“Matt.”

His partner, who had been killed. “And?”

“My sister.”

Who had also been killed. “And?”

Blue eyes hardened. “That's enough.”

Her heart ached for him. “No, Paavo. It isn't.”

“You?”

There was a pause. Angie's eyes felt shadowed, and she spoke softly. “No. I know you don't trust me.”

He took his hand away, his eyes cold. “I know what you expect me to say, but I'm sorry, I can't do it. I don't trust a father I never knew or a mother who walked out on me. If that means I don't trust much, it's true. But I've got good reason.”

“Maybe you could find them. There might have been a reason they left. Then you could forgive and—”

“Hell, Angie! Stop dreaming. The bastard never even married my mother. I know it.” He gave a derisive snort. “And well I should, considering I just called
him
what he made
me
.” He looked hard at her, then cupped her chin. “Don't let it upset you, Angie. It was a long time ago. They're probably both dead by now. They have nothing to do with this—with you and me.”

“What does, then? Why must I always be saying good-bye to you?”

Because everyone says it's best
, he wanted to shout,
including your own father! And, damn it, because I know they're right!

But when he looked down at her, saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes, he couldn't say it. He touched the sides of her face, then moved closer. “I don't want to hurt you, Angie. Believe me. All I ever wanted was to do right by you. Logically, rationally right.”

Her arms circled his shoulders as she looked up at him. “Don't you know love doesn't work that way?”

“Good Christ, woman!”

“Don't!” She pressed her fingers to his lips. The heat of her hand, the silken softness of her fingers, burned where she touched him. He stayed absolutely still, knowing that to move would be to lose all his resolve.

She felt his warm breath on her hand, felt the firm but smooth skin of his lips, edged by the bristle of tiny whiskers just appearing above his upper lip and on his chin. Her hands quivered as her breath caught. Ever so lightly she moved her fingers along the outline of his lips, memorizing their shape and form and feel, as if she were blind and would never be able to touch him this way again.

His mouth opened, as she traced along the inner edge of his bottom lip.

His mouth was pinched with terse lines, the skin below his lower eyelids dark and hollow, his broad high brow lined with tension. Slowly her gaze met his, and in his eyes she saw the full ache of his longing and of his loneliness.

“Hold me,” she whispered.

Grasping her shoulders, with a delicate pressure he drew her closer. When her face lifted to his, he lowered his lips, meeting hers in a kiss that held all the love he would never speak of.

The kiss deepened. With long, slow, deliberate pressure, his hands moved to her back, then lower, over her waist, her hips. Wherever he touched, she came alive, each nerve end singing. She gripped his shoulders as need rocked her.

He picked her up as easily as if she were a doll and carried her to her bed. There he tossed her football jersey onto the floor. Shucking his own clothing, he lay beside her. She raised her arms to circle his neck, but instead of moving closer to her, he took a moment to stay back and simply look at her. He ran his forefinger lightly over her dark brows, her small nose, along the edges of her generous lips, then over to her ears until she smiled from the tickles. Then his hand traveled downward, over her breasts, her small waist, wide hips, and, lower still, to her dark, inviting warmth. As much as he'd tried to break away from her these past days, seeing her with another man, even though they meant nothing to each other, made him realize how he'd feel if he lost her, how much she meant to him and always would.

To have her here, now, was suddenly more important than any plans or wishes for a future that might never be.

 

Before dawn, she awoke to find the back of her body pressed against the front of Paavo's, the two of them fitted side by side like soupspoons in a drawer. The problem had to do with commitment, it seemed.
But she wouldn't let herself dwell on that, she decided, snuggling closer. He was here now.

His hand cupped her breast. “You move against me like that one more time, and you'll get more than you bargained for.”

“How do you know what I bargained for, Inspector?” She wriggled again.

“Is that a dare?”

She rolled onto her back, her eyelids heavy with sleep, her lips still puffy from his kisses. Then she gave a long, languorous, full-body stretch, just the way a cat might while lying in the warm sun. He waited impatiently for her answer, his body heat rising with every seductive move she made.

“What happens if I lose the dare?” she asked.

He kissed her shoulder, her chest, her breast. “I make love to you.”

“What happens if you lose?”

His kisses continued to her ribs, her waist, her belly. “Same thing.”

“I like your rules, Inspector.”

 

Paavo was quiet when they finally got out of bed, but she hadn't expected him to be otherwise. She looked at him in amazement when he called his office and said he wouldn't be in until after lunch. She didn't understand it, but she wasn't about to question or complain.

It didn't sound as if he'd gotten any complaint from his boss, either. Angie couldn't help but wonder if the other officers might not be glad he was staying away, if he'd been as moody and bad-tempered around
them as he'd been around her.

For breakfast she made him a Belgian waffle, topped with a scoop of whipped butter and a choice of real maple syrup or homemade boysenberry jam, bacon and scrambled egg on the side, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and strong Italian roast coffee.

Paavo stepped up to the dining table after showering and then shaving with the Lady Shick she used on her legs. Luckily, she had a fresh blade for it. He looked at the feast, then glanced at her uncertainly. “Looks good enough to eat,” he said, and smiled awkwardly.

Paavo rarely smiled. She knew he was uncomfortable, unsure of what last night had meant to her, to himself. “Don't let it get cold!” She tried to make her voice light, then quickly sat down, knowing he was too much of a gentleman to sit while she still stood.

He pulled out the chair across from her and busied himself with the meal. She watched him instead of eating. Time and again she'd imagined him there with her, the morning sun brightly filling the room. How did he feel? she wondered. He came last night to apologize, then to leave. Was he upset his plans had been altered, or happy? He looked up, and she quickly dropped her gaze.

“Aren't you eating?” he asked.

“I am.” She grabbed the syrup and poured it on top of her waffle before she realized she'd already taken some. The waffle floated in the sticky mess.

“Angie.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. “You and I both know it'd be a hell of a lot easier if when I came over last night you were with Mark
Dustman and showed me the door. But since that didn't happen, at least not yet, we'll take things slow.”

“Last night wasn't slow.”

“I don't mean that. I mean…” Blue eyes held hers, and he couldn't seem to find the words.

“Going our separate ways?”

“Exactly.”

“You expect how I feel about you will slowly wither away?”

Her heart skipped several beats. Then he said, “It might.”

It hurt that he still wouldn't accept the way she felt about him, but he'd spent a lifetime of having people he loved leave him, everyone but Aulis Kokkonen. She couldn't demand that he change. That would only drive him further into his shell. She had to be content, at least for now.

She ate some of her waffle, then pushed the soggy mass aside and sipped some coffee. “I'm glad I ran into you with Mark yesterday,” she said brightly. “Even though you hadn't planned it that way.”

“Planned it?” he replied. “I had no idea you'd been in contact with him. Or that you two had grown so chummy.”

She smiled. “Don't worry. I've been working at LaTour's, and I got to know him there. He's pretty quiet, all in all. His dream is to be a master chef. When he told me you called him, we got the idea of making you a little jealous.”

“Who, me?”

“More surprising things can happen, though not many. Anyway, Mark was certainly a good sport.”

“He seemed quite taken with his role, if you ask me. The only problem is, we didn't get to ask him all our questions.”

“He's not going anywhere.” Her expression grew mischievous. “On the other hand, he might have been using me just to stop your interrogation.”

“I wouldn't be surprised.”