“What about Mom?”
Stephen released him with a sigh, returning the cigarette to his mouth. His stomach was hurting now, and he longed to go inside, to heat the glass until the smoke rose up, to inhale over and over again. He wanted to forget about the day, forget himself, assuage his ache.
That query went unanswered, so James asked another. “You think he killed that girl?”
Stephen didn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at him. The next logical question, the one about their mother, remained unspoken.
Carly didn’t have any trouble choosing Christmas presents for James.
With Ben’s help, she selected a handsome diver’s watch, the same kind he used, of such stellar quality it boasted a lifetime guarantee even under the brutal wear and tear of salt water. She also chose a midnight blue cable-knit sweater, claiming it matched James’ eyes.
Ben rolled his.
Carly would have bought out the whole store if he hadn’t stepped in. He didn’t care about the money, but he had to draw the line somewhere. “You’ll embarrass him, Carly. He doesn’t want to be thought of as a charity case.”
“I guess you’re right,” she sighed. “What should we get for Summer?”
Ben shrugged.
“Jewelry?”
He pictured the tiny silver cross she’d had around her neck last night. “No. Too personal. We don’t know each other that well.”
“What does she like?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Don’t you ask her about herself?”
“No.”
“You are so clueless.”
Actually, he wasn’t. He knew better than to encourage a woman into thinking they were embarking upon a long-term relationship.
“Lingerie, then?” she teased.
“Even I’m not that obvious.”
“Good. Perfume?”
“She doesn’t wear it.”
“How do you know?”
He knew because he’d smelled and touched and tasted her skin at most of the places women put perfume. Although he could think of a few more spots he’d like to introduce himself to. “I just do.”
They came back to jewelry, having exhausted all other options. Carly found an unusual pale blue stone pendant, hanging from a platinum chain. It was smoky and ethereal, like Summer’s eyes.
“Why don’t you say it’s from you?” he asked when Carly insisted that he buy it. It was too expensive, too lovely, and too fitting to be an offhand gift.
“You have major issues,” she sighed, but agreed.
In the car, on the way home, she said, “She’s been dead a long time. When will you let her go?”
Never, he thought.
He couldn’t let her go any more than he could forgive himself for killing her.
As usual, Sonny had difficulty deciding on an outfit to match her assumed role and the occasion. She finally settled on a calf-length skirt and soft leather boots, both vintage, and her own. The black cashmere sweater was new, bought with federal funding, and it had a neckline low enough to show off Carly’s silver cross.
She figured she may as well wear it again, especially since it was Christmas Eve.
Sonny Vasquez wasn’t fond of religious accoutrements. Summer Moore, she decided, could wear one without overanalyzing its symbolism. Besides, the necklace drew the eye to her cleavage, and although she wasn’t planning on letting Ben round second base again, she wasn’t above making him wish he could.
When he opened the door, he didn’t say anything about her appearance. Gone was the simple charmer who’d told her she looked delicious.
“Come in,” he said, very formally.
He was wearing gray suit pants and a white dress shirt. A black-and-gray-striped silk tie hung loose at his neck, and his toes were covered by black socks. He had sexy feet, she recalled, missing the sight of them bare.
“Do you know how to do a Windsor?”
“Yes,” she said, following him upstairs. Sonny had knotted ties for her brother every time he’d gone to court, so she’d had a lot of practice.
While he sat to put on his shoes, she studied the room. On the wall to her left, a framed portrait of a nude Hawaiian girl stood against a backdrop of brilliant green palm fronds. A strategically placed hibiscus-giant, luscious, and gorgeously red-made the full-length picture more artistic than erotic.
The rest of the room was austere in comparison. White walls, sand-colored carpet, and white crown molding. The bed was huge, but low to the ground, its white down comforter and fluffy white pillows blending in with the surroundings rather than dominating the room. A black mahogany dresser had a pair of cuff links on top, nothing else. Across from the bed, there was a fireplace, its hearth cold and unlit.
Beyond a half-wall partition, a pale green love seat and matching chair faced a smart-looking plasma screen TV. The weather channel was on mute. Mahogany bookshelves, filled with scholarly-looking volumes, completed the room.
The space was visually striking, modern, and sterile. The shock of red hibiscus in the framed photo and the green leaves in the background, a motif that was repeated on the designer couch as well as the floor-to-ceiling curtains, were the only splashes of color.
The focal point, however, was not the floating bed, flat screen TV, or naked island nymph. It was the view. The west-facing wall was all glass, with windows so tall and wide Sonny felt as though she could step right out into the Pacific.
She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself tightly.
Ben ducked into the master bath, probably to make himself even more devastatingly handsome, so she browsed his book collection while she waited. Jean-Paul Sartre. Karl Marx. Dostoyevsky. Immanuel Kant.
He liked philosophy. Ew.
“You read this stuff?” she asked, raising her voice.
He reentered the bedroom, crossing it to stand in front of his dresser drawers.
“Uh, yeah. Some of it.”
She pulled a book off the shelf. Sigmund Freud: Civilization and Its Discontents. “You believe in this crap?”
“What crap?”
“Penis envy.”
He glanced at the book she held and fastened his cuff links. “That one’s not about penis envy. But no, I’m not a fan of that particular theory.”
“Oh? Explain why.”
“Well, oversimplified-”
“By all means, oversimplify. Otherwise, my penis-deprived brain will explode.”
He laughed. “I’ve never met a woman who wasn’t delighted with what she had. Are we in agreement?”
“Yes,” she said, replacing the book, disappointed that she hadn’t been able to start an argument.
“Are you going to knot this tie for me?”
She walked up to him, looking into his deep brown eyes. He was so controlled today, so reserved. It made her want to mess up his hair and unbutton his shirt. Instead, she formed a nice Windsor knot, taking longer than was necessary, standing closer than she had to, smoothing the tie down over his sternum and her hands across the impressive breadth of his shoulders when she was finished. “Done,” she whispered, pressing her stocking-covered knee to his thigh.
“Thanks,” he said tersely, stepping away from her.
“I didn’t know this was such a formal affair. I would have worn my ball gown.”
His eyes raked over her, lingering on the swells of her breasts. “You look fine,” he said in a low voice, then lifted his gaze to the doorway.
Sonny didn’t have to look over her shoulder to know Carly was standing there, eavesdropping. In over five years as an agent, and a lifetime of hyper-awareness, she’d never been snuck up on.
Nor had she ever lost herself so completely in a role.
Sonny bit her lower lip, on the cusp of madness. Here she was, old enough to know better, dumb enough to do it anyway, in danger of falling for a man who wasn’t even bothering to pretend he was interested in a real relationship. On the job, no less.
She turned toward Carly, vowing to stay focused on her assignment, not Ben Fortune’s bedroom eyes, for the remainder of the evening.