Читать книгу Hot Summer Nights - Joan Elizabeth Lloyd - Страница 9

Soon after the roar of KJ’s bike stilled, Marie heard her husband, Joe, slam the back door. As he always did, he swept his wife up in a bear hug and as she always did, she said, “Stop it, you beast.” With a giggle she added, “What about the children? They just got home.”

“They’ll see that their parents like to smooch.” He planted a large, noisy kiss on his wife’s mouth.

“You’re incorrigible,” she said with a laugh. “Kids!” she yelled. “Daddy’s home and dinner’s ready.” She turned to him. “What brings you home so early?”

“It was pretty quiet at the market so I left Carl in charge and snuck out the back, Jack. Too many hours working makes me a dull boy.” He hugged her tighter.

“Stop,” she said and playfully slapped at his shoulder. “Did you bring anything home with you?”

“I had a bit of leftover potato salad and I brought some new kind of sausage Carl whipped up. Veal, basil, and sun-dried tomatoes. Sounds a bit bizarre, but I thought we could try it tomorrow night.”

“And poison everyone at the cookout? Sounds really weird but then Carl seldom makes anything that isn’t wonderful.”

“He’ll be here tomorrow evening so we can make him eat some first.” His embrace lifted his wife’s feet off the ground but he put her down as Phillip and Stacy ran into the dining room.

“Dad,” Phillip said, “cut it out. You two are supposed to be setting an example for us kids.”

“I’m setting a great example. Family and love are great things, and should be shared. Now go wash up and then help your mother in the kitchen.”

“I don’t need any more help than yours, Joe,” Marie said. “Kids, Daddy’s right. Go wash up because dinner will be on the table in five minutes.”

“What are we having?” Stacy said, reluctant to commit to anything until she understood all the parameters.

“Fried chicken and mac and cheese,” Marie said. “Two of your favorites.”

“And broccoli?” Stacy asked, ever suspicious.

“Yes, broccoli and you have to eat three bites. Now scoot.”

The two children dashed toward the bathroom, each yelling dibs on being last to wash. Marie and Joe walked into the kitchen and busied themselves getting organized. “I met a really nice-looking blond lady today,” Joe said.

“That was Leslie. We talked to her this afternoon on the beach and she told us that she’d met you. She seems really nice, levelheaded and able to deal with Suze pretty well.”

“You’re not jealous? She’s quite a looker. And that sexy-as-hell voice…”

“She really is beautiful, and although she tries to downplay it, it doesn’t work. And no, I’m not jealous. You’re too stuck on me to be interested in anyone else.”

“Right you are, woman,” Joe said, slapping Marie’s bottom as she bent to pull the casserole from the oven. She seldom made anything from packages, preferring to concoct her meals from scratch. “Oh, and I saw Vicki Farrar poking around the old Sherman Gallery property this afternoon. I wonder what that was all about. That place has been empty since last fall.”

Marie looked up, knowing that the old Sherman place was across the street from the market. “What do you mean by poking around?”

“She and some guy in a suit had the key and checked inside and out for over an hour. I can’t help but wonder what’s up.”

“If anything’s up, Suze will know about it before long so I’ll bet we won’t have to wait long to find out.”

“Yeah, she’ll know everything, probably before Vicki does. Did you invite Leslie to the cookout? I did, but I want her to feel like she’s really invited.”

“You just want more of a look at her, but yes, I did invite her and she said she’d be there.”

At the sound of the slamming bathroom door the two parents yelled simultaneously, “Don’t slam the door!” And with that, dinner was served.

Despite the fact that there were two houses between hers and Suze’s, Abby Croft heard the roar of KJ’s motorcycle as she tidied up the living room before dinner. The children were upstairs, playing video games on the two computers that Damian had installed at the beginning of the summer. As if to conjure him up, the phone rang. “Hi, honey, it’s me,” he said, his voice loud and cheerful. “How are things going?”

“We had a pretty ordinary day here,” she said, happy to hear her husband’s voice. “How about you?”

They spent several minutes exchanging details of their days, then Abby said, “I’m really looking forward to seeing you tomorrow evening. It’s been a long and boring week.”

“You sounded busy.”

“That’s kid stuff. I miss having you home each evening.”

“But hon, you know that I need…”

“I know,” she interrupted. They had similar discussions often. Damian thought that having a beach and other children to play with was beneficial for Mark and Tammy while Abby would have been happier staying in their house in a suburb of Hartford and letting the kids play in the neighborhood. She truly missed having Damian home each evening and she couldn’t help being a little suspicious as well. Every time she suggested that she and the kids could return to Hartford for a couple of days so they could play with their friends, Damian argued strenuously against it. She couldn’t help but wonder whether he was spending his evenings with someone else while she was neatly out of the way. “I love you and I miss you. Having only the children to talk to gets boring.”

“You have all those neighbors to hang out with.”

“Right.” She paused, then continued, “There’s a new neighbor, in the Rogers Cottage. Her name’s Leslie and she’s really beautiful. You’ll probably meet her tomorrow evening at the cookout. I think you’ll like her.” He’d certainly like looking at her.

“Sounds great. Listen, I’ve got a business dinner in a few minutes so I’ve got to run. I’ll be there tomorrow, although it might be a little later than usual. Office stuff.”

“Okay. We’ll be waiting. I love you.”

Damian’s “I love you back,” was a bit too perfunctory for Abby’s comfort, but she had no choice but to hang up the phone.

In Hartford, Damian snapped his cell phone shut and dropped it on the carpeted floor beside him, then lay on the bed, naked, while his latest liaison, a twenty-two-year-old brunette who dreamed of being a movie star, lay between his legs, his large cock in her mouth. “You’ve got to be more careful,” he said, only half serious. “You almost made me lose my train of thought.”

The brunette, he thought her name was Diane, licked the length of his erection. “Fuck trains of thought,” she said. “Concentrate on this.” She took most of the length of him into her mouth and he did, indeed, fuck his train of thought.

As the sound of KJ’s motorcycle abated, Brad DeVane watched Leslie slowly rise from the sand, dust off the seat of her baggy shorts, slip her feet into a pair of flip flops, and turn toward her cottage. So, she’d finally arrived. He’d been waiting for her since Monday, knowing she had paid in advance for the entire month. What a stroke of luck it had been when the DA’s office had found out about this vacation. Leslie, or Carolynne with an “e,” her name in the trade, had chatted animatedly about it with another pro in a small restaurant and someone from the DA’s office had accidentally overheard. He was asked to “encounter her” and see what he could find out about Club Fantasy, the infamous brothel in which she worked, and specifically its client list. Someone wanted the information badly enough to pay for the rental cottage he was in for a few weeks.

When he’d been approached to take the assignment, he’d balked. Although he’d been in limited duty because of his leg, he was his precinct’s top computer investigator and he was working on several important cases. He certainly didn’t want to take time sitting around some beachfront hotel waiting to connect with some prostitute. And how the hell was he supposed to find out information that she obviously didn’t want to reveal. Romance her? Not a chance.

He’d wondered whether his boss, Mike Mitcham, had taken advantage of this bullshit assignment to give him some time off, time he’d been trying to convince Brad to take since…“You can take your computer,” Mike had said, “and probably get more work done there, away from the precinct. She’s important of course, but so’s the East Coast Recycling matter and the background work for the Volkov investigation. We can be in touch whenever you want me and that way you can kill several birds with one stone.”

Mike had known all the right buttons to push, so here he was, climbing out of the water, looking conspicuously macho while trying not to limp, in an effort to attract her. She was certainly worth attracting, despite all she’d done to play down her looks. All that incredible sandy blond hair was slicked back in a ponytail, she wore no makeup, and baggy shorts with that awful sports bra hid her sensuous body. He’d gazed at the pictures in her file and had to appreciate the package. She was a looker, all right, but that was a prerequisite for being a thousand-dollar-an-hour whore.

Tomorrow evening would provide the opening he’d been looking for, he realized. She’d be at the cookout, everyone at this end of Atlantic Beach Road would come, and he’d strike up an innocent conversation, slowly ingratiating himself and subtly pumping her for scraps of information. He’d find out quickly enough whether there was any reason to question her further, which he’d do over the next week. Then he could end this fluff and get back to the city and do his real job.

As he approached, Leslie was almost at the stairway over the seawall. He ran up and decided to “accidentally” bump into her. “Sorry,” he said, panting, “lost my balance.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “No harm done.”

“I’m Brad DeVane.”

“I know. Suze told me.”

“God, Suze is a piece of work,” Brad said, shaking his head. “She grilled me like a well-done steak yesterday. She’s the mayor but should be chief of police. Or maybe an FBI interrogator.”

Leslie’s laugh was as deep and warm as her sexy voice. “She really does want to know everything about everyone. I got the same third degree. Nice to meet you. I’m Leslie Morgan.”

Not using Carolynne. “Nice to meet you, too. Did you just arrive? I didn’t see you here yesterday.”

“Yeah. Late this afternoon. I’m here for the month. You?”

“For another week, anyway. A long overdue and, I’m afraid, much-needed vacation. And before Suze warns you off, I’m a cop.”

He watched Leslie’s expression and saw a tiny wariness creep in around her eyes. “I’m not sure I’ve ever known a cop up close and personal. Where do you cop?”

“New York City. I hear a little Big Apple in your accent. You, too?”

“Guilty. Manhattan born and bred. What kind of cop are you?”

“You mean good cop or bad cop, like in the movies?”

“I’m sure you’re a good cop.” She looked him over thoroughly. “You’d never pull off ‘bad cop’ with your looks. I meant do you drive around in one of those marked cars or are you a detective?”

He didn’t want to tell her that he was temporarily assigned to a desk so he slipped back into his previous job, the one he was trying to forget. “I’m a sergeant in the Chinatown area. What do you do?”

“I’m part of a small business in Midtown. We do remodeling.”

He wanted to invite her to dinner and pump her for information immediately but he knew it was too soon. God, she was quite something as she gazed at him with those wide-set hazel eyes. Actually he wanted to ask her to dinner just to get to know her but that wasn’t why he was here. “Did Suze tell you about the cookout tomorrow evening?”

“She did. I’ll be there. You?”

“With bells on.”

“Good, I’ll see you then, if not before.” She started up the stairs and Brad watched her behind, not as well concealed as she might think since the baggy shorts tightened over an A+ ass as she climbed. Yes, this assignment might just have delicious fringe benefits.

The apartment was dark, dingy, and smelled of stale whisky and garbage. A woman screamed at a man who leaned out an open window, a child held in front of him by one arm. Brad focused on the baby’s red overalls and black shoes as the man dangled the boy highabove the concrete. He tried to approach but with every step the man got farther away, the room longer and narrower. He tried to shut out the shrieks of the child but as hard as he tried the screams penetrated more deeply into his brain.

He knew his partner Pete was behind him, but when he swivelled his head all he could see was the screaming woman, her mouth wide, her face distorted. The man’s fingers uncurled and the child fell from his grasp. Although he knew it was a physical impossibility, Brad dove to catch the toddler before he hit the ground and, in diving, he exposed his partner to the gunman’s revolver.

His heart pounded, his breath came in short gasps as he watched the baby who kept falling and falling. He wanted to run back down the stairs but he knew that he wouldn’t be in time to save the kid. “He’ll kill him!” the mother cried. “Do something! Stop him!”

Then shots, flashes of light, pain, screams. Then terror and nothingness.

Brad awoke drenched in sweat as he always did, his tongue rubbing over his broken front tooth. It took a trip to the bathroom and a full glass of water before he finally stopped shaking. Damn, he swore, returning to his bed. This is so fucking stupid. You see it in the movies, but it doesn’t happen in real life. Okay, the department shrink said he’d probably have nightmares but it just wasn’t his thing. He didn’t have posttraumatic stress. He wouldn’t allow it. Shit, I sound like a macho jerk.

This was part of the reason the department had given him this assignment, paid two weeks of rent on this house to get him close to Leslie. He needed space, his boss had argued, a little time to deal with it all, and it wouldn’t hurt to let his leg heal for a week or two more. And his brain.

He tried to get back to sleep but shards of the dream kept interfering so, after half an hour of fruitless attempts, he untangled the sheets from around his waist, dragged on a pair of trunks, grabbed a towel, and headed for the water. He knew it was foolhardy to swim alone but this seemed the best way to work off the dream.

Half an hour later, tired from his exhausting swim, he climbed back into bed and fell into a light, but refreshing sleep.

Earlier that evening, when she returned to the cottage, Leslie spent an hour prowling. Downstairs, the building had a spacious living room, furnished in contemporary comfortable: the sofa upholstered in a floral print with two generously stuffed chairs in coordinating fabrics, wicker coffee and end tables, brightly colored ginger-jar lamps, and several pieces of colorful pottery. The kitchen was large and, as the agent had said, completely equipped with dishes, pots and pans, and, surprisingly, a closet filled with condiments and spices, probably left by previous tenants. She found lots of closet space for her market purchases and checked on the perishables she’d put in the large refrigerator earlier.

The small dining area contained a light colored wooden table with four chairs with padded seats and a sideboard that held place mats and tablecloths. A pair of ceramic candle holders with matching salt and pepper shakers graced the center of the table. The downstairs bathroom was functional, with towels, floor mats, and lots of small bars of soap.

The upstairs bathroom was luxurious, with a Jacuzzi tub and French hand-held shower. Leslie glanced at the space on the floor between the toilet and the tub, then remembered that she’d left her scale at home. She’d use the zipper test. If her pants still closed, she’d forget dieting—well, sort of.

The three bedrooms were similar, each room in white with a different muted shade. She put her suitcases in the pink room, as she thought of it, because the drapes, spread, and cushions on the white rocker were all the same soft rose and beige stripe, with lamps and small dishes scattered around in coordinated shades of rose and tan. The four-poster bed was also white, as was the dresser and mirror. The other rooms were clones of the first, one done in moss green, the other in robin’s egg blue.

There was a good-sized-screen TV in each room and when she snapped on the one on her dresser, she was delighted to see that she got more than a hundred channels. She could be happy here, she realized, at least for a month.

Back downstairs she set up her laptop computer on the dining room table and hooked the dial-up wire to a phone jack in the kitchen. Now she could check on her e-mail messages and work on her schedule for September. No! she told herself. She wouldn’t think about September. Not for quite a while yet.

Unused to being home in the evening she made herself a peanut butter sandwich, settled in front of the giant screen TV in the living room, and channel surfed. She watched a few shows she’d talked about with clients but had never actually seen. She laughed with Sex in the City and pondered a case throughout CSI as she sipped a glass of reasonably decent Merlot she’d brought with her. At about ten, she wandered into the kitchen and took a bag of microwave popcorn from the closet where she’d put it, then, with an evil grin, put it back. Instead she grabbed a bag of sour cream and onion Ruffles and a can of Diet Coke—she couldn’t get too frisky with the calories—and returned to the sofa for an episode of a show a client had recommended called Without a Trace. Not bad, she thought. I could get used to this.

Finally, well after Jay Leno and Conan O’Brien, she climbed the stairs and slept deeply until after ten the following morning. As she pulled up the blinds in her bedroom and opened the window wider, she was almost blinded by the reflection of the sun on the water. Like yesterday, the sea was like glass and the air hazy. The bedroom was beginning to heat up as the sun beat on the wide windows so she reclosed the blinds, hoping she could enjoy fresh air without the room getting like an oven.

She yawned and stretched, wondering what she would do all day. After a long, hot shower she pulled her hair back in a barrette, then put on a lightweight, slightly baggy T-shirt and a pair of lightweight denim slacks, noticing that the zipper slid up easily. Feeling hungry she decided to splurge and find someplace to go for breakfast, or, since it was now after eleven, lunch. Grabbing her car keys and purse, she drove into the town of Atlantic Beach and along the main drag. The town seemed comfortably busy. Several cars were parked in front of Joe Martinelli’s Market and a little silver convertible that might be the one she’d seen in her neighbor Vicki’s driveway sat across the street in front of a storefront with a for lease sign in the front window.

The Wayfarer, a family restaurant, tempted her growling stomach so she pulled into the parking lot and entered. The place was cool and bright, with beige and blue industrial carpeting and light colored tables and chairs. She was shown to a booth and handed an eight-page laminated menu.

“Hello again,” a male voice said. She looked up and saw Brad, standing tall and handsome beside her table. He was gazing down at her with his deep brown eyes and wide smile. He had a small chip out of one of his front teeth and that tiny imperfection made the rest of his face look still more perfect: long slender nose, wide-set eyes, full lips, and a small brushy moustache over a sensual mouth. His hair was neatly trimmed and mahogany brown, with a deep wave that crossed the top of his head from the top of one ear to above the other.

“Hi.” She wasn’t sure she wanted the strain of making conversation with a good-looking hunk, so she kept the expression neutral.

“I’ve been here several times and I haven’t made it through the menu yet. Want some company?” When she hesitated, he continued, “That’s a yes or no question and you’re certainly allowed to want some alone time.” When she kept silent for another moment, he continued, “No sweat. I’ll see you at the cookout tonight.”

What the hell, Leslie thought. He’s just a nice man. A nice man who’s a cop. “Please. Join me. My brain is just a little slow this morning. I’m trying to switch into vacation mode.” He was really gorgeous, in a rugged, uneven sort of way.

“Thanks,” Brad said. “Glad you thought of it.”