Dancing in the Dark Read online

  “You drink it?” Eric fought to contain his laughter, the picture of Tony with a teacup almost his undoing.

  “No.” The word spoke for itself. “But I'm stuck here waiting for a printout. There's been a technical glitch and Mac here,” Tony's voice faded as he turned away, “is working to fix it.”

  “Not a problem. It'll take me a while to get through this file. I'll try to establish a perimeter and then we can plug your findings into the mix.”

  “Actually, the case isn't why I called.” Tony now sounded distinctly uncomfortable, and Eric had the sudden urge to hang up the phone. “I, ah, promised Bess I'd have a talk with one of her friends.”

  “Here?”

  “Yeah. She's due any minute.”

  “And you want me to talk to her.” Just what he needed, an afternoon spent baby-sitting one of Bess's friends.

  “Well, it seemed the obvious solution. I'm here, you're there.” He could almost hear Tony shrug. “It's not that big a deal. She's been getting crank phone calls. Just wants some advice on what to do. Shouldn't take you more than ten minutes, tops.”

  “Fine.” Eric sighed. “I'll do it.” As if there'd ever been a choice. “What's her name?”

  “Sara Martin. Bess says she's a real looker.”

  As if on cue, a woman walked into the room. Tiny and perfectly formed, she moved with the elegance of a dancer, blonde hair shimmering in the artificial light. A small mole accentuated the corner of her mouth, adding a touch of exotic to an otherwise American pie face. Blue eyes, blonde hair. The girl next door with a twist. Exquisite was the word that popped into his mind—along with a vivid image of her naked.

  He shook his head. If this was Sara Martin, the visual wasn't the best way to start a conversation. He watched as she walked across the room, her stride and body language indicating a careless confidence.

  But Eric wasn't fooled. There was vulnerability, too, carefully sequestered under an artfully constructed facade. He doubted most people would notice. But then he wasn't most people. And the anomaly made her all the more appealing, the combination of sexuality and mystery serving only to pique his interest.

  The woman stopped just in front of the desk, her lips curling into a cautious smile. “Are you Tony?”

  He shook his head, realizing he was still holding the phone. “His partner. Eric D'Angelo.”

  She licked her lips nervously, the gesture only making her seem more sensual. He'd obviously lost his fucking mind.

  “Eric, you still there?” Tony's voice brought him back to reality in a heartbeat.

  “Yeah.” He answered, nodding like a moron.

  “So is she there?”

  “Yeah.” He repeated again, his eyes still locked on the woman in front of him. “And Tony—Bess was right.”

  Chapter 3

  “Right about what?” Sara Martin studied the detective curiously. Even seated she could tell that he was tall, a big man who'd no doubt dwarf her when standing. Reflexively she stood a little straighter.

  “Punctuality.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She asked, more than aware that she was staring at him.

  His hair was dark, almost blue-black, and just this side of too long, the effect rakish and at odds with the harsh lines of his face. His eyes were a peculiar shade of gray, light and dark all at the same time, his gaze piercing.

  There was a small scar on his chin and another at the corner of his left eye, the marks adding character, making him seem more human somehow. Eric D'Angelo wasn't conventionally handsome, but he was definitely compelling, and her fingers itched for her camera. His was a face she'd like to photograph.

  “I was just talking to Tony.” He stood up, extending his hand. “Bess said you'd be on time.”

  She had the distinct feeling that wasn't what Bess had said at all, but she wasn't about to push for anything more. His hand engulfed hers, his skin warm and dry, the palm a little calloused. His gaze held hers, his eyes seeming to look deep inside her, and just for a moment she imagined that the air between them crackled with electricity.

  Which was, of course, ridiculous.

  Pulling her hand away, she licked her bottom lip nervously. “I take it Tony isn't coming.”

  “No.” He shrugged, the corner of his lip quirking upward in the smallest of smiles. “I'm afraid you're stuck with me.”

  “How about if I just talk to him another time? I'm sure you have more important things to do than talk to me. I feel like I'm intruding on your day.” She gestured at the papers piled on his desk.

  “Actually you're a welcome break. Have a seat.” He gestured to a chair by the desk, and she sank down onto to it, feeling a bit like a lamb in the lion's den. More so even when he perched on the corner of his desk, his proximity almost as intimidating as his physical presence. “So tell me how you know Bess and Tony.”

  “I know Bess from the magazine. We usually have lunch a couple time a week, and we take the same aerobics class at the gym. I've never actually met Tony.” Which sounded lame. And now that she really thought about it was probably bordering on rude. Bess had been a good friend, and although Sara adored her, she'd purposely kept her at arm's length.

  “His schedule doesn't make him easily accessible.” D'Angelo's smile was meant to be soothing, but seemed to have just the opposite effect on Sara.

  “I guess he told you why I'm here?” She'd meant it as a statement, but it came out more of a question, and she fought to pull her rioting emotions under control. He was so close, she could actually smell him, and on some chemical level, her body was reacting to the olfactory onslaught. Pheromones speaking to pheromones.

  He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, the movement taking him farther away. “He said it was something to do with a crank phone call?”

  She couldn't tell from his expression what he was thinking, but she couldn't imagine, considering the kinds of things he probably dealt with daily, that her phone calls were anything to cause particular concern, and she felt compelled to tell him so. “I feel silly, really. Now that I'm here. It's honestly nothing to be alarmed about.”

  “Why don't you let me be the judge of that?” His eyes narrowed as he studied her, his scrutiny making her want to squirm. She suspected that Eric D'Angelo had elicited more than one confession with an expression like that.

  She nodded, trying to order her thoughts. “It started about a year ago. The phone would ring in the middle of the night and when I'd answer it, there was nothing but dead air. In the beginning, I wrote it off as a wrong number. There were only a handful of calls, and those sometimes months apart. But recently they've started coming with more frequency. I've kept a log.” She reached into her purse and handed him a small notebook. “The first few dates are estimates. I didn't think to write them down until later.”

  “I'm impressed. Most people wouldn't have thought to do this at all.” He flipped through the pages, stopping to study an entry or two. “Seems to be consistent about the times he calls. Has he ever said anything?”

  “No. It's always just silence.”

  “What do you say?”

  “Generally, I ask who's there a couple of times and then hang up. Sometimes, if I pick up the receiver again, he's still there. But not always.”

  D'Angelo nodded, handing her back the notebook. “Have you considered changing your number?”

  She smiled at the question. “I can't. I'm a freelance photographer. My home number is the same as my business number.”

  “I thought you said you worked at the magazine?” He was frowning again, the lines of his face seeming even harsher.

  “I'm not actually a staff member. I contribute a monthly article. A photo essay of sorts. Like Life magazine. It gives me the freedom to choose subjects that interest me. They've been kind enough to allow me some office space, and in return I fill in occasionally when they need an extra photographer or someone with my particular skills. It works well.” She shrugged. “But, unfortunately, it doesn't pay all th
e bills.”

  “Hence the freelancing.”

  “And the need for a listed phone number.” She sighed. “There really isn't anything you can do to help me, is there?”

  “Under normal circumstances we can't get involved unless there's an implied threat. And even then, we can't do a whole lot. But there are things you can do. Do you have an answering machine?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, for starters you can let it pick up any late-night calls.” He glanced down at her hand, his frown deepening. “Or, at the very least, let your husband answer.”

  She twisted her wedding ring nervously. “I'm not married. At least not anymore.” She lifted her eyes, not certain she wanted to meet his gaze, yet unable to stop herself. “He died.”

  Concern washed across his face, his expression softening. “I'm sorry, Sara. I saw the ring and just assumed …”

  “It's my fault really. I need to take it off.” She bit her lip, the gesture almost apologetic. “It's just so hard.”

  “I can see that it would be.” Again his voice was gentle, his eyes kind. “It was six months before I took mine off.” He smiled ruefully, glancing down at his ring finger. “And I only got divorced.”

  “It's been two years,” she said simply, as if the words explained everything.

  “Two years is a long time.”

  She searched for censure in his face, but saw nothing other than compassion. “My son was killed, too. In the accident. I guess I'm afraid that if I take the ring off, I'll lose what little of them I have left.”

  Tears threatened, and she fought for control, mortified that she'd let her emotions hold sway. He was, after all, a stranger, no matter how compelling, and here she was babbling like an idiot, telling him things she'd hardly admitted to herself. “I'm sorry. I don't know why I told you all that.”

  He pulled a Kleenex out of a box on the desk and handed it to her, the touch of his fingers against hers alarmingly comfortable. As if they'd touched many times before, in far more intimate ways. She snatched her hand away, using the tissue to hide her rioting emotions.

  “Everyone has to handle grief in their own way, Sara. I suspect there's no such thing as a right time for dealing with it.”

  She nodded, wishing that there was a way she could take all the words back. She didn't normally spill her guts to a stranger. Maybe it was the atmosphere. Police stations were supposed to elicit confessions.

  But in truth she knew it wasn't that at all. It was the man himself—Eric D'Angelo. There was something about him that made confiding easy. Almost a compulsion.

  She smiled, hoping the gesture gave at least an illusion of composure.

  Whether it did or not, he seemed to be satisfied with what he saw, his big body relaxing as he shifted on the desk, the movement subtly increasing the distance between them. Almost as if he were withdrawing. Sara was surprised to feel regret.

  “What I was going to say,” he smiled, purposefully steering them back to the matter at hand, “is that it's good to have a man record the message. It sounds sexist, I know, but even if it's only on tape, the presence of a man can act as a deterrent.”

  “That makes good sense. I should have thought of it myself.”

  “Sometimes it's easy to overlook the obvious. Especially when you're emotionally involved.” His smile was comforting, and she had to stifle the urge to ask him to make the recording.

  She shook her head, forcing her thoughts back to the caller. “What else can I do?”

  “If you don't already have it, you can try Caller ID. It might not give you an identity, but depending on where the calls are coming from, it should give you a number, and that's a start.”

  “I did talk to the phone company and they suggested the same. I just haven't gotten around to it. I guess, to be honest, I haven't taken it all that seriously until recently.”

  “Why the change?”

  “A combination of things, really. My friends have all been urging me to do something, which indicates that they're concerned. And, I don't know, there's just something different about the calls now. Nothing concrete, just a feeling I have.” She shrugged, words obviously inadequate. “Maybe something to do with what's been in the news lately.”

  “The murders.” He didn't mince words, and she was absurdly grateful for the fact. She'd been right. Eric D'Angelo was the kind of man one could lean on. Trust with anything. But maybe she was mixing the profession with the man.

  She nodded, not quite meeting his gaze. “I know it seems silly. But it makes you start thinking about things in a different way.”

  “I think you're absolutely right to take this seriously. Odds are it's just a prank, but you can't know that for certain, and taking steps to thwart the caller is more than warranted. Besides, in instances like this the more proactive you are, the less likely the caller is to keep coming back.”

  “So you think maybe if I show him I'm taking action, he'll stop?”

  “Something like that. Anyway, it's worth a try. And who knows, if he's stupid enough, Caller ID might just nail him.”

  “That'd be nice. Even though he never talks, it's still sort of like having a voyeur. Like he's there in my bedroom. You know?”

  “I can imagine.” D'Angelo was shuffling papers on his desk, and Sara realized she was procrastinating, trying to prolong their conversation. Which probably wasn't a good idea for any number of reasons.

  She stood up, holding out her hand again. “Thank you for your time, Detective.” The words seemed absurdly inadequate, but she could hardly share her flights of fancy and she'd learned long ago that it was better to err on the side of caution.

  “I'm glad I could help.” He rose, too, clasping her hand in both of his, the touch strangely exhilarating. “And call me Eric. Any friend of Bess's is a friend of mine.” His smile was warm, and just for the moment she allowed herself to believe it was personal. “Call me if anything changes. Or if you actually get a number. I can probably find the owner easier than you.”

  “Thank you,” she said again, suddenly feeling awkward. There was something about him that pulled at her. A connection of sorts that was hard to ignore. Except that of course it was most likely her imagination. Or her libido choosing to make an appearance at a most inopportune moment.

  She pulled her hand away, ignoring the hint of laughter in his gray eyes. Surely he couldn't tell what she was thinking? The thought brought on the heat of a blush, and she stepped backward in haste, almost falling over the chair.

  He was beside her in an instant, his speed at odds with his size, his hand on her waist, steadying her. “You all right?”

  She nodded, unable to find her voice. Their eyes met and held, and she suddenly found breathing difficult.

  “Good.” He released her and she fought to keep from reaching out to reestablish contact.

  She took another step backward, clutching her purse, struggling to radiate some semblance of composure. “I really should be going.”

  “Maybe I'll see you at Tony's.” His smile was slow and sure, his gray eyes glittering silver.

  Heated.

  Predatory.

  Eric D'Angelo was definitely a dangerous commodity.She hadn't felt anything like this since Tom had died, and quite honestly she wasn't certain she was ready. But even so, she was astute enough to recognize that, despite her misgivings, she wanted to see him again—more than she could possibly have imagined.

  Eric stared at papers on his desk, trying to focus on the case, his brain refusing resolutely to cooperate, intent, instead, on concentrating on an image of Sara Martin. He frowned and shook his head, already accepting the fact that it wouldn't do him a bit of good. There was just something about her that made a man's head go a little off-kilter.

  And it wasn't just her looks. Although he wouldn't chase her out of his bed. It was more than that. She seemed an enigma of sorts. Vulnerability mixed with strength. Sensuality with intelligence.

  He found the combination enticing and
puzzling all at the same time. None of which made any sense. He wasn't in the market for a relationship, and Sara Martin was definitely not one-night-stand material.

  Not to mention the fact that the woman was obviously still hung up on her husband. If that wasn't a recipe for disaster, he didn't know what was. But despite all that, he couldn't quit thinking about her, his mind obediently trotting out the image of her standing by the desk, her skin soft against his hand, the sweet smell of her perfume seductive in its simplicity.

  He blinked his eyes, forcing himself to clear his head. There was work to be done, and he sure as hell didn't need the complication of someone like Sara Martin in his life.

  Period.

  There was simply no room for anything lasting. He just didn't have it in him to give. Which was an indication right there that his thoughts of Sara were over the top. He'd only just met the woman, and he was already worrying about a long-term relationships. Hell, the reality was he'd probably never see her again.

  The thought left him feeling strangely deflated.

  “Fascinating file?” Tony seemingly materialized out of nowhere, plopping down at his desk, a know-it-all smile on his face.

  “I'm just trying to understand the vic. Maybe narrow down our locations.”

  “Who you trying to kid?” Tony asked, his smile widening into a grin. “I know you pretty damn well, and unless I miss my guess, you're not thinking about work at all.”

  “Of course I am.” He scowled at Tony, angry at himself for being so transparent.

  Tony leaned his chair back against the wall, ignoring the scowl. “I take it things went well with Sara Martin.”

  “She was a nice enough lady. Intelligent and easy on the eyes. But that's it. I gave her some tips and sent her on her merry way.” He shrugged, trying for nonchalant. “She mentioned something about her husband and son dying. You know the story?”

  Tony nodded, his expression suddenly grim. “They were killed in a car wreck. I don't know the details. Just that he lost control of the car and both of them were killed. The kid was only four.”