Dancing in the Dark Page 6

  “Charlie was your son.” The words were inadequate, but he wasn't certain what to say, and he desperately needed to say something.

  “He'll always be my son, Detective.” There was a gentle rebuke in her words, and she reached to take the photo from him, the touch of her skin against his oddly unsettling.

  “I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that—” He held up a hand in apology, distraught by the fact that he had offended her, distracted by the way she made him feel.

  “I know.” Her smile was slow but genuine. “It's just that people are always talking about Charlie and Tom in past tense, and while they may be gone on a physical level, I can't accept that some part of them isn't still here,” she tapped her heart, “with me.”

  “I can understand that. My father has been dead for awhile now, but sometimes I'd swear he's still here, talking to me when I need him most.” He hadn't meant to say that. Some things were meant to be private. Hell, he hadn't even shared that sort of thing with Lauren.

  “So why are you here?” Her gaze met his, blue eyes questioning.

  He stepped back, lifting the plastic bag, as if it would create a barrier between them. A barrier he suddenly felt that he needed. There was something about Sara Martin. Something that made him want to throw caution to the wind. Forget good sense, and pull her into his arms.

  But that wasn't exactly the polite thing to do, and so instead he held the bag higher. “I brought you a Caller ID box.” Once it was said, he had to admit it sounded pretty lame. “I wanted to help. And since there's nothing I can do professionally, I thought maybe this would be a start.”

  “How thoughtful.” Her smile this time lit up her whole face, and just for the moment he felt like the most important person on earth. “I meant to stop and get one myself. But, as usual, I got sidetracked. So this is perfect.”

  “You'll still have to add the service.” He pulled the box out of the bag. “But that can be done with a phone call. Do you want me to install it for you?” There really wasn't anything to it, but he didn't want to leave, and it seemed an obvious ploy.

  “That'd be great. Where do you think I should put it? I've got three phones. One in the living room, one in the study, and another upstairs,” she gestured with her chin, “in the bedroom.”

  Just the word bedroom sent a slew of less-than-innocent thoughts racing through his head. He blew out a slow breath and forced himself to concentrate. “It should work wherever it is. I guess it just depends on whether you want to see it when the call comes in, or just know that it's doing its job.”

  She frowned, thinking. “I suppose, since the calls come mainly at night, I'd rather have it in the bedroom. That way I can see if the call is from someone I know and answer it.”

  “That makes sense. And if you don't recognize the number, you can let the machine get it.” He opened the packaging and pulled out the box. “This one will store up to fifty calls and the name and number if it's available.”

  “Great. How much do I owe you?”

  “Consider it a gift. I used my connections.” He'd bought it himself, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to tell her that. “Just my way of helping a friend.”

  “A friend's friend.” Their gazes met and held, the air suddenly seeming too thin to breathe. “You're a good guy, Detective D'Angelo.”

  “Eric.” Despite good sense, he took a step closer.

  “All right, then. Eric.” She licked her lips, the gesture provocative.

  He reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, then dropped his hand self-consciously, fighting against the surge of hormones crashing through him. Her perfume surrounded him, filling his senses, making him feel protective and turned-on all at once, the two instincts at war with one another.

  Protection won out.

  It was too soon.

  With a release of breath, he stepped back, purposefully breaking the connection. “Show me where the phone is.”

  Chapter 7

  He was sitting on the edge of her bed, his strong hands connecting the phone line. If Sara listened carefully she could hear his breathing. She swallowed nervously and then licked her lips, her eyes glued to his every move. It was as though things were exaggerated, moving in slow motion— as if she were hyperaware. Every nerve in her body reacting at once.

  She shook her head, tightening her hand on the door frame, a futile attempt to ground herself. Eric D'Angelo sent her senses reeling in a way that was frightening and exhilarating all at the same time.

  “All done.” He stood up, his word at odds with the intensity in his eyes.

  She swallowed again, certain that they were communicating on a level that had nothing to do with crank phone calls and Caller ID boxes. “I can't thank you enough.”

  “Sure you can.” His grin was contagious. “You can call the phone company tomorrow and get this thing operational.”

  “I will. I promise. And in the meantime, I'll let my answering machine take care of my phone calls.”

  He walked toward the door, and involuntarily she stepped back, something in her, the preservation part, wanting to keep at least a modicum of distance between them.

  “All right. Guess I'll let you get back to your evening.” He started for the stairs, and all need for distance vanished, replaced by the much more urgent need to keep him with her.

  “If it's not too presumptuous …” She broke off, feeling stupid, but he turned, waiting, his gray eyes unreadable. “I thought maybe you could record a message for my machine. You said it was better if a man did the recording.”

  “Sure, it's a good idea. Where's the machine?”

  “In the study.” She walked past him, their bodies touching briefly, igniting their internal conversation again. There was no denying the connection between them was strong, but that didn't mean it was anything but chemical. “I'll show you.”

  Study was probably too grand a word for the little room off the living room, but it was her favorite place in the house, a bank of windows on the south wall filling it with tree-dappled sunlight in the mornings and silvery starlight at night.

  “It's over here on the desk.”

  “What a great piece.” He lovingly ran his fingers over the carved oak of the rolltop desk, and she shivered as if he'd been touching her. “My grandfather had one like it.”

  “I never had a grandfather.” The words were out before she could stop them, and immediately she wished them back.

  He shot her a quizzical look before flipping up the cover of the answering machine.

  “I mean of course I must have had one. It's just that I never knew him.” She was babbling and feeling more of a fool by the minute. “My mother died when I was still a kid, and I never knew my dad. So grandparents weren't part of the equation.”

  “I'm sorry. Mine were such an integral part of my life it's hard to imagine someone not having that.”

  “I did all right, I guess.” She shrugged. “You can't miss what you've never had.”

  His gaze held hers for a moment, his eyes clear, devoid of pity, and she felt a rush of gratitude mixed with embarrassment. She didn't usually blurt out her life story, preferring to leave the memories undisturbed. And she couldn't for the life of her understand why she'd chosen to do so now.

  As if sensing her discomfort, Eric held up a hand requesting silence, the action granting a reprieve, bringing them back to the mundane. The recording was to the point. Her number and a request to leave a message, but the timbre of his voice sent her senses reeling anyway.

  “All done.” His smile was warm, and for the moment, she let herself bask in it. “Once you call Southwestern Bell, you'll be in business. And until then, you've got me.”

  The thought was enticing, until she realized he meant the recording. “I'll definitely sleep better. Thank you.” She took a step toward him, not completely certain of her intent.

  He seemed to understand more than she did, because he closed the gap, his breath stirring the hair around her cheeks. She tip
ped her head back in response, meeting his gaze, her heartbeat ratcheting up a couple of notches as she leaned closer, not certain where this was going but positive she wanted to find out.

  “Sara? You in there?” Ryan's voice broke between them with the effectiveness of ice water. She jumped back, hot color flooding her face.

  Eric's smile was slow, the gesture not reflected in his eyes. “Saved by the bell?”

  “Something like that.” She struggled for composure, forcing her breathing to a calmer state.

  “Sara?” Ryan walked into the room and stopped, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt. I knocked, but figured you were on the phone or something.”

  “It's all right.” It was anything but all right, but Sara wasn't about to tell Ryan that. “Detective D'Angelo and I were almost through.” She wasn't certain what made her stress the word detective, but Eric's mouth quirked upward in response.

  “Eric D'Angelo.” He held out a hand. “I'm Tony Haskins' partner.”

  Ryan took the offered hand, then met Sara's gaze with a pointed look. “I've heard about you from Bess.”

  Eric nodded, and the two men sized each other up in a way that could only be described as male. Sara bit back a smile.

  “You all discussing anything I should know about?” The question was pointed, Ryan's gaze probing, his thoughts obvious.

  He was afraid she'd told Eric about the pictures. Which of course she hadn't. Although the thought made her feel suddenly guilty. “Eric was kind enough to bring me a Caller ID box.”

  Ryan relaxed almost immediately, his smile genuine. “Well, it's about time.” He shot a conspiratorial look at Eric. “I've been trying to get her to do it for months. I should have known the only way was to show up with the equipment.”

  “It seemed like a good idea.” Eric's words seemed to have secondary meaning, and when his eyes met hers, she felt as if they were bonded in some intrinsic way, the two of them against the world.

  Ridiculous thought.

  “I brought the article.” Ryan waved an envelope through the air, bringing her back to reality with a thud. “I wanted you to see it before I send it to press.”

  “Kind of late for a deadline, isn't it?” Eric asked.

  Ryan shrugged. “The magazine goes to press tonight, and with everything that's been happening, we're rearranging a little. Par for the course in publishing.”

  Eric nodded, his interest already fading. “I guess I'll go then, and let you get to it.”

  Sara wanted to stop him, to keep him here with her, but the impulse was irrational at best. “I'll walk you to the door.”

  Ryan moved to sit on the sofa, his attention on the page proofs in his hand.

  Sara and Eric walked into the hallway, stopping at the door. Silence stretched between them, his proximity making breathing difficult. “I'm sorry for the interruption. Ryan has no concept of the word after hours. For him work is a never-ending process.”

  “It's all right. I'm the one who was interrupting.”

  “Not really. I mean you came to help. That's hardly an imposition.”

  His smile was crooked. “How do you know I won't demand payment for my services?”

  Her breath caught in her throat, her imagination going wild. “How do you know I wouldn't pay it?” They were talking in code again, their bodies moving together of their own accord.

  He reached out to push the hair back from her face, the simple touch sensual in its simplicity.

  “Sara?” Ryan called impatiently.

  “You need to go to home,” Sara said.

  “I do.”

  Neither of them moved.

  “How about we try this again another time?” Eric asked.

  Her mind said no, but her head nodded yes.

  “Why don't you come with me to Bess and Tony's barbecue?”

  Again she nodded, despite her thoughts to the contrary.

  “Until then.” His smile was slow, sure. And with infinite grace, he leaned forward, brushing his lips against hers.

  The kiss was fleeting and searing all at the same time. Everything and nothing. And as the door swung closed, she realized there were tears in her eyes.

  Eric drove mindlessly down MoPac. He ought to go home. Or, better yet, head to the station. But he couldn't seem to do either. So instead he was driving endlessly up and down the highway, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.

  He prided himself on his ability to detach from a situation. It was the only thing that got him through the grim realities of homicide, and for the most part he managed to keep the same kind of control over his personal life.

  Until tonight.

  What was it about Sara Martin that reduced him to a bumbling school kid? She was pretty, but that alone didn't explain the effect she had on him. There was something deeper going on. Something that he wasn't certain he understood.

  And part of him wanted to find out more about it. That was the part that had asked her to the barbecue. But another part of him was certain he'd just jumped off a pier into twenty-five-foot swells—without a life preserver.

  The thought was more exhilarating than it should have been.

  His cell phone broke through his thoughts, and relief warred with irritation. “D'Angelo.”

  “Maynard Tompkins is dead.” As usual, Tony didn't bother with extraneous dialogue.

  “Shit. When?”

  “They found him about fifteen minutes ago. He's still warm.”

  “I thought he had a tail.” Eric took the Enfield exit without slowing the car.

  “He was holed up in his apartment. Uniforms figured they could take a break.”

  “Son of a bitch. I'm on my way.”

  “I'll be here.” Tony clicked off the line, and Eric let go with another round of expletives. Tompkins was their primary witness to the crime scene. They'd gotten the basics out of him, but not everything.

  Damn it. Why was it always one step forward, two steps back?

  Then again, maybe there'd never been a step forward at all.

  “Thanks for not telling him anything.” Ryan sat back against the sofa cushions, his expression grim. “I know it isn't your style to be duplicitous. And I had no idea you'd have a homicide detective show up at your door.”

  Sara held up her hand, shaking her head. “It's all right. I promised we'd hold the information until morning and I meant it. Eric will just have to understand.”

  Ryan reached over to take her hand. “He will. And if he doesn't, then he's not worth the worry.”

  “Nate did a good job with the article.” She forced a smile, purposefully changing the subject, her mind still centered on Eric D'Angelo. What in the world had she been thinking— agreeing to a date with him. “He's a good writer.”

  “He's got potential, I admit that. Okay for me to run it?”

  “Absolutely. And then, tomorrow, I'll go talk to the police.”

  Ryan stood up, smiling. “Why don't I get out of your hair, and let you get some sleep?” They walked to the door in comfortable silence, then Ryan reached out for her hands. “I promised Bess I'd try to cajole you into going to the barbecue. It would do you a world of good.”

  Sara laughed. “Not you too. Bess just doesn't take no for an answer. But you can all relax. I'm going to the party.”

  “You are?” Ryan's smile echoed her own. “That's wonderful. Do you want a ride?”

  “Actually, I have a date.” At least she hoped she did. Once she admitted holding back her photographs, he might feel differently about the invitation. But she wasn't going to borrow problems; she had more than enough already.

  “With who?” Ryan's curiosity was almost palpable.

  “Eric D'Angelo.” She paused for a moment, afraid suddenly that Ryan would disapprove. “What do you think?”

  “I think it's perfect.” He squeezed her hands and released them. “It's time for you to start living in the present again, and if D'Angelo can facilitate that h
appening, then I'm all for it.”

  She smiled up at him. “You're a good friend.”

  “I know it.” He touched the end of her nose. “Now go get some sleep. Tomorrow we're going to win a Pulitzer.”

  More likely she was going to be arrested for withholding evidence. But if the arresting officer was Eric D'Angelo, she had to admit the idea actually held a certain appeal.

  “What have we got?” Eric stood at the doorway to Tompkins' apartment. A mirror image of the one where Lydia Wallace had been killed, the two scenes couldn't have been more different. Tompkins had taken a single shot to the head. No blood spatters, no sexual overtones. In fact, without a body, the room looked oddly peaceful.

  “Shot was a thirty-eight. Clean as a whistle. Someone he trusted enough to turn his back on wanted him dead.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “Could be anyone, but I'd say the best possibilities are our serial killer or Ramirez. Can't imagine he was any too happy that Tompkins turned him in.”

  “My money is on Ramirez. But I don't think he killed Lydia. Forensics find anything?” The techs had already swept through the room, telltale markers and chalk lines dotting the room.

  “Not much on the cursory examination. But there's always hope.”

  “Yeah, and miracles happen every day. Is Ramirez in custody?”

  Tony shook his head. “There's an APB out. My guess is he'll try to hightail it out of town. So we're watching the highways and airport. I doubt he'll get far.”

  “Until then, what do you say we start canvassing the neighbors? Maybe somebody heard something.” He turned his back on the empty room, focusing on the task ahead.

  Tony followed. “How'd it go with Sara Martin?”

  He frowned over at his partner. “How'd you know about that?”

  Tony grinned. “Molly called Bess.”

  “The world is too damn small, you know that?” He hadn't meant to snap, but he liked to keep his personal life just that—personal.