The Big Bad Wolf Tells All Page 19

  He glanced up at Tanzy’s building as his Palm Pilot connected, only to see her dash out of her front door and across the street. She ran around the back of his SUV and tapped on the passenger window. Juggling two Cokes, a couple of sandwiches, and what looked like a Road Runner figurine in a plastic bag, she motioned him to unlock the door.

  He spent a moment considering the wisdom of that move, and maybe enjoying keeping her in the rain a fraction longer as well. After all, if she’d just been a little less stubborn about all this, they could be dining on real food back in Millicent’s roomy kitchen.

  Her teasing smile shifted to what he’d come to think of as “that look.” She was very good at it, which still didn’t explain why it turned him on. Fighting a grin despite being annoyed with her—so what else was new?—he popped the lock.

  She slid in and snapped the door shut behind her. “I thought you might like some company for lunch.”

  As if she wasn’t the reason he was dining alone. In his truck.

  She dangled the bag, immune to his glare. “And I brought you a fingerprint sample.”

  “Wile E. Coyote?”

  “A gift from Martin.”

  Riley frowned and took the bag. “When?”

  “When what? Oh, when did he give it to me? Just after the wolf/sheep thing hit big. Readers have been sending me sheep figurines. It was the closest he could come to a wolf.” She glared at him. “I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t some kind of hidden message of his sudden and profound obsession with me. More an example of his sweet but dorky sense of humor.”

  Riley withheld comment on that and inspected the figurine through the plastic. “Who else has handled this? Has it been dusted?”

  “I believe that’s your field.”

  “I meant as in housecleaning dusting.”

  “I’ve handled it, but no, no dusting.”

  He regarded the figurine dubiously. “The uneven surface will make it difficult. You couldn’t get a meeting with him?”

  She sighed. “Try to cooperate and all I get is a bunch of complaints.”

  “Meaning you could get a meeting, but you didn’t.”

  She held up the sandwiches. “Ham and Swiss, or tuna?” She put them on the padded console between them and went about popping the tops on the soda cans and putting them in the console holders. “I’m more the tuna type, if it helps you in the decision-making process.”

  “Tanzy, listen, we really have to discuss—”

  “Listen, I came out here, being nice, bearing food and fingerprints, because I’m getting tired of seeing you sit out here in the rain. You won’t even wave.”

  He gave her the look. Judging from the little flash of response in her eyes, he was pretty good at it, too. “I’m working.”

  “Come on, Riley, I know Millicent is worried, but you’re handling this, right? So there’s no need for her to—”

  “Yes, she is worried. And yes, she’d rather us both be under her roof.”

  “I told you I couldn’t live with her. Just as I told you—and her—that I didn’t think it was necessary for you to watch over me like this. So don’t blame me for your having to sit out here like this. There’s no need for her to pay you to—”

  “Your aunt isn’t paying me for this detail.”

  That shut her up. For a moment, anyway. “Did something go wrong between you?”

  “No. You demanded taking over the bill payment and she accepted it.”

  “But I made it explicitly clear that I didn’t want a bodyguard, I—”

  “Yes, I know.” He scowled, though how he’d hoped to avoid this particular discussion, he had no idea. “You’re not being billed for this, either, okay?”

  Nonplussed, she sat back and stared at him. “Why?” she asked finally.

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Because once I start something, I see it through to the end.” Whether it was his pro career, rebuilding his father’s life, finishing cases . . . “Just because you don’t think you warrant protection doesn’t mean I agree. And as long as I’m working this case, where and how I choose to work it is up to me. And I choose to work it where I can also keep my eye on you.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, opened her mouth, then shut it again.

  He couldn’t help it, he smiled. “What do you know. It can be done, and I don’t even think hell had to freeze over.”

  Now he got the look again, and felt better for it.

  “I’ve been known to remain speechless for entire minutes at a time,” she informed him frostily. Then the dry smile surfaced, followed by a resigned sigh as she flopped back in the seat and watched the rain splatter against the window. “I appreciate what you’re doing.” She glanced over at him. “Really, I do. But SoulM8, whoever he is,” she added with a warning glance, “hasn’t contacted me in days. Not since the dance. I’ve had two columns out since then and no email after either one. Martin hasn’t done or said anything remotely suspicious to me in our emails.”

  “I know.”

  She just looked at him. “Great. Thanks. So, did it ever occur to you that maybe it’s over and he’s moved on to some other unfortunate recipient of his twisted lust? I mean, at what point do we stop all this?”

  “It doesn’t make sense that he’s just given up. Whatever drew him to you in the first place hasn’t changed. If anything, it’s magnified. The focus and attention on your column is white-hot and gaining. You’ve got more media exposure with that piece in last Sunday’s paper, and now the appearance on Good Morning Bay Area next week.”

  “Maybe that’s it, maybe he’s shying away from the spotlight. Or maybe he made you. You haven’t exactly been hiding yourself.” She snagged the tuna sandwich from the bag and unwrapped it. “I mean, I go to the grocery store and you’re right there in the frozen-food aisle. I stop to meet Sue for lunch, and you’re two tables away. I get in my car, you’re right behind me. It’s silly.”

  “It’s one more shield than you’d have without me.”

  She paused midbite, then lowered the sandwich altogether. “You really think he’s going to come directly at me? You said most stalkers lacked self-esteem, that they kept their distance in order to keep their dreamworld intact. That contact was too risky, because rejection of their twisted reality would burst their fantasy bubble.”

  “And that is statistically true. But after the note at the dance, it’s a chance I’m not willing to take. And neither should you.”

  The sandwich completely forgotten now, she stared past him out the window. Riley had no idea what she was thinking this time. “Do you really think it could be Martin?” she said finally, breaking the rain-pattered silence. “I mean, he has plenty of other means of letting me know if he has . . . feelings for me.” She rubbed her arms. “I’m sorry. I can’t buy that.”

  “I’m not just looking at Martin. He’s only a possible. We’re still looking at the stalker being an employee for FishNet.”

  She fell silent again, then very quietly said, “I get this shuddering, creepy-crawly feeling every time I open my email file. I hate knowing he has access to me, even that way. And as much as I hate even considering it’s someone I actually know, I think I hate even more the idea that it’s just some stranger, with a face I wouldn’t recognize, out there somewhere, watching me. I want to believe he’s moved on, gotten over it. I really do.” She was absently shredding the crust of her sandwich into little pieces.

  “I know,” he said, just as quietly. “And maybe he has.”

  She looked at him. “But you don’t think so.”

  Riley just shook his head, wishing he could tell her otherwise.

  “So when do we give up? How long do we pursue this if he stops making contact?”

  “Until we at least have a face or a name. Otherwise, he’s still out there, knowing who you are, knowing things about you, with you knowing that at one point at least, he developed a highly unstable crush on you. And it leaves you here, knowing nothing at all ab
out him.” He clicked his laptop and Palm Pilot closed, email forgotten, turning to face her fully. “Information is power, and right now he’s holding too much of it to suit my peace of mind. And yours, from what you’ve just told me. So that’s how long we stay on.”

  “What is the chance he’ll become an actual threat to me? Your professional opinion,” she added.

  Did she suspect the monumental struggle he was waging keeping the personal out of this? “I don’t know. I have someone running an updated profile, taking this latest contact into consideration. I should get it back later today. I can try to lift something from the figurine. Even a partial would be enough to give us an indication. But until we find out a name at least—a face would be even better—I stick close to you.”

  Her dry smile flickered to life. “Whether I want you to or not?”

  “Unless you want to hire someone else, someone who will only play by your rules.”

  She immediately shook her head. “No.”

  Riley tried to tell himself the immense relief he felt was because of the paycheck. And knew it was a lie before the thought had completed itself. Just as he knew he’d see this through whether she was paying him to or not.

  “I do trust that you know what you’re doing. I—I just guess I hate admitting how much I need you to do it, is all.”

  Riley hated the defeated look on her face. One of the things he admired most about her was her chin-first attitude. And right now he wanted to reach out, stroke that chin, turn it toward him, lean over, and—

  “I guess we need to discuss the current situation here, then.”

  The current situation, he wanted to tell her, was that he was achingly hard and dying to taste her. He could tell himself his professional judgment wasn’t clouded, but the fact was, he was in a fog so thick and sensually charged, he was completely incapable of discussing anything.

  She sighed, apparently oblivious to the fact that he had to curl his fingers into his palms to keep from reaching for her. She looked small somehow, when she’d always been larger than life to him, and he hated that defenselessness about her. He wanted her to be mad, like he was, furious that someone dared to mess with her head like this guy was.

  “I agree that I need to at least know who this guy is. For my own peace of mind. And . . . although it pains me to admit it”—she flicked a hint of her special dry smile his way—“I’ve slept better knowing you’re out here watching me. Only I can’t let you go on doing this. Sitting in your truck, I mean. Christmas Eve’s less than a week away, for God’s sake. I feel like Scrooge.”

  “Afraid you’ll be visited by some ghosts in your sleep, are you?”

  She laughed then and he was glad to see her regroup. “I have plenty of ghosts, trust me. But that’s not what’s motivating me.”

  “Then what is?”

  The quiet seriousness in his tone had her turning toward him. She started to toss off some smart remark, he could see it in her eyes. Then she stopped, and her expression grew as serious as his. “I like you.”

  Riley couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Is that so bad a thing to have to admit? Are you still mad because of how I handled—”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just that, to be quite honest, I don’t have many men I consider friends.” She looked at him directly. “And so, I like you. I like knowing I can talk to you. And while I’m making a fool of myself here, I’ll admit that I like thinking I could talk to you about things unrelated to the case.” She raised a hand to fend off his response. “I know you think that sheep thing was all an act, but I have to tell you, Riley, you’ve got more sheep in you than you think.”

  Whatever he’d been about to say dissolved in an openmouthed snort. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Oh, don’t get all offended on me.”

  He could have told her he wasn’t in the least offended. In fact, it was probably the most flattering thing she’d ever said to him. “Go on.”

  “I guess I feel like if I had something that was bothering me, you’d listen. I mean, really listen, and rather than overreact like some of my girlfriends would do, you’d think about it and offer some kind of sound, rational advice. That’s your inner sheep.” She folded her arms. “Go ahead and laugh now.”

  He didn’t. He was too confused. “Why is my being a supposed nice guy and all-around good listener a problem?”

  Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Because. I can’t live with Millicent. A weekend is one thing, but you don’t know what it’s like. I simply can’t do it for the long haul. I’ll be running foundations and making speeches at luncheons before I know it.”

  “Would that be so bad?”

  She merely glared at him.

  “I meant, you said something at the charity ball about getting more involved.”

  “Involved, yes. But on my own terms. Under the same roof with Millicent, nothing is on my own terms. So I can’t live with Millicent, ergo I’m living at home. I can’t stand you living in your truck, ergo—” She motioned toward her row house.

  “You’re offering your place?”

  “I’m not getting us adjoining hotel rooms.”

  Riley settled back against his door, quite happy to discover that apparently he wasn’t, in fact, the only one having sleepless nights. Nights that SoulM8 hardly factored into. “And I appreciate that. And the offer to bunk in. But I still don’t understand the problem.”

  She swore under her breath, and damn if it didn’t make him even harder. How she did that would always be a mystery to him.

  “Fine, then, might as well just sacrifice what’s left of my ego here.” She shifted her body so that she faced him, pulling one knee up on the leather seat. “I like you, okay? But I also want you. And all the mixing business with pleasure stuff aside, I generally don’t do well with keeping men around very long after we—after I—”

  “Have your way with them?”

  “Oh, you’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “So, let me get this straight. Mixing business with pleasure aside, you want to be friends, but you also want to . . . have your way with me?”

  “Must I completely abase myself here?” At his amused but very direct look, she swore again. “Fine, maybe this is what I deserve after all. My friends certainly seem to think so.” She held his gaze directly. “Yes. Okay? Happy now? But, more important, I want to be your friend. I want to know you’d be there for me. And not because I’m paying you to be.”

  “I would be,” he said, all kidding gone. “Will be.”

  “I—” She swallowed, surprised by the solemnly stated vow. “Thank you. I’d . . .” She let out a little laugh. “God, you threw me, there. I, uh, I want to be there for you, too. If you ever needed anything, that is. I know we don’t know each other that well, but—”

  “So what is the problem, Tanzy?”

  “If you move in with me—professionally speaking—it’s going to be hard for me to, well, only want to be your friend.”

  “And you don’t think I can resist such a temptation?” He’d been teasing, fully expecting her to take a shot right back. So he hadn’t expected the little flicker of hurt in her eyes. Which is when all the teasing, the torturing, and the worrying about inherited sins and professional distance flew right out the window. “I’m not sure I could,” he said, then reached over and ran his fingertips along the side of her face. They both shuddered at the contact. “Would that really be so bad if I didn’t?”

  She lifted a wary gaze to his. “It’s been my experience that,” she said, her voice wavering as he continued to stroke her face, play with her hair, “while a whole hell of a lot of fun, sex generally ruins everything.”

  “I don’t have sex with clients,” he said, already leaning over the console, tugging her closer, wishing like hell they were somewhere other than in his damn truck.

  “Well, then,” she said, already sighing and letting her eyes drift shut. “I guess that’s one problem solved.”

  “Yeah,�
� he murmured, “so fire me already.”

  “You’re totally fired.”

  “Thank God. Because I’m not going anywhere anyway.” He pushed his hands into her hair, rubbed his thumbs along her cheekbones. “And no one is going to get close enough to touch you.” He stole one taste, and that was all it took to put him over the edge. He tugged her bodily across the console, across his legs and chest and into his arms, sending computer, food, and God knew what else skidding everywhere. He could care less. She was finally right where he so badly wanted her to be.

  “Except me.” And then he crushed his mouth to hers.

  You can give your heart to your family.

  You can give your heart to your friends. And you do so, with relative ease, because they’ve earned it, because they feel the same, or simply because you want to. And despite the inherent risk of having that gift mishandled or even broken, you still do it. Even feel pretty secure in your ability to maintain your end of things; the love, the dedication necessary to back it up.

  So why is it, then, that giving your heart to a lover is so downright terrifying?

  Chapter 15

  He tasted perfect. Who would have ever thought her sheep would turn out to be such a damn fine wolf?

  She could hardly believe he’d just reached out and taken what he wanted—her—and damn the consequences. And there were going to be consequences. Nothing this amazing came for free.

  But she couldn’t worry about that now. His mouth was on hers, his tongue insistently penetrating her mouth, making everything inside her clench with a need so deep she literally ached with it. He commanded this kiss, nothing tentative about the way he tasted, touched, took.

  Consumed.

  Which is exactly how it felt . . . and she liked it. A lot.