Satisfaction Page 10

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said slowly, shaking her head. “And what gives you the right to break into my house and threaten me?”

  Did he really know what she and Raine were doing, or was this some kind of bluff to get information out of her?

  “Whether you have phony witnesses or not, Paul, I’m calling the police right now.”

  He shrugged. Dressed in black denims and a navy T-shirt, stubble on his jaw, he looked like the petty criminal he was. “Suit yourself. Just know this. My father’s worried, and when he gets worried, people…disappear. But, well, see, you and I were something to each other once, briefly.” He shrugged again, then averted his gaze. A moment later, he sought Georgie’s eyes once more. “Okay, we’re done here. I’ve been an upright Boy Scout and done my good deed for today. Consider yourself warned.”

  Georgie twisted her body, reaching for the phone. Quickly stabbing in 911, she turned to face Paul once more, but he was gone.

  Chapter Nine

  Feng shui’s goal is to maximize the beneficial movement of chi through your home. Shapes, sounds, colors, light, texture, symbolic imagery, and the arrangement of your possessions, create a particular chi, which allows you to be at peace, move forward in your life, and connect with the man of your dreams.

  Georgiana Mundy’s Feng Shui for Lovers

  Just after dawn on Saturday, Ethan slowly closed the cover on the file Lucas had compiled. Slouching in his office chair, he scrubbed his chin with his knuckles, giving his brain some time to process, analyze, recover from what he’d read. He’d met her just over a week ago, but now that the last twenty-nine years had been filled in, he knew a week would never be enough time to get her to trust him.

  Reaching forward, he picked up a small photograph, the only personal item of his in the entire suite of offices. In his palm, the metal and glass frame felt cool, remote.

  By rights, a man his age, in his position, should have more photographs decorating his space. But he’d lost the desire to cultivate that kind of relationship, the kind that would put a pretty wife and a couple of kids in frames on his desk for him to check out as the day progressed. Pictures of the people who kept it real, kept a man grounded, helped him remember that everything he was, everything he did, in the end, was for them.

  He stared down at the old photo in his hand.

  Two little boys sat close together on a couch, smiling for the camera, as they held a crying baby girl awkwardly in their arms.

  Nobody who worked for him knew for certain who those kids were, had been, would never be again. If anybody asked, Ethan simply redirected the conversation, and since he was the boss, the issue was dropped.

  Gently, he put the picture back in its place.

  He was only thirty-seven, but some days, he felt older than goddamned dirt. But hell, he had no right to complain. Paladin was a success. He had everything in life he’d ever wanted, and then some.

  So what? his conscience jabbed. So the hell what?

  Absently, he opened Georgie’s file again. Now he understood, saw how her mind worked, what drove her. She was tougher than he’d imagined, and had made her way in the world alone. She’d crafted a family out of love and loyalty, clung to them, and guarded them more fiercely than a wolf protecting its young.

  Everything she’d done in her life had been designed to move herself ahead, and yet she hadn’t screwed anybody over to get there. She might have a stubborn streak as wide as the Pacific, and a short fuse—both of which she’d deny—but she also had a strength and a sense of honor and integrity he found admirable, and wildly attractive.

  In more ways than he wished to count, she was perfect for him.

  Yeah, right, his conscience poked. That’s not going to happen, pal, and you know why.

  He knew. He’d made a mistake, and now he’d pay for it for the rest of his life. Not in coin; that would be too easy. But in the things he would be denied. Six years ago, his brilliant future had been knocked completely on its ass.

  In a way, he’d always chased catastrophe—it came with the job—but it usually belonged to somebody else. This time, though, chaos had pivoted on its heel and smashed him in the nose. A sucker punch followed by an uppercut that had shattered his career, and his dreams.

  Cathy. They’d had it all ahead of them, him and Cathy. All of it—house, kids, the works. In an instant, it had been snatched from him, leaving a hole in his life he thought he’d never recover from.

  Until the day Georgie Mundy collided with him in an elevator, and he felt something stir inside him he hadn’t felt in six long years.

  Though he was young and healthy, he hadn’t met a single woman in all that time he wanted so damn much that just seeing her put breath in his lungs, desire in his blood. He’d kissed her, tasted her, felt her flesh in his hands, and it had both excited and terrified him.

  He shook his head, trying to dissolve the images of them together. He needed to stop thinking about her as though she were the one who might ease the shadows from his soul.

  “You need to move past this, Inspector,” the official shrink had advised him. “Put it behind you. Sometimes things happen in life that are nobody’s fault, Ethan. Cathy—I mean, Inspector Vandermere—was a cop, too. She knew the risks, same as you…”

  Words. Bullshit words. Rationalization for his failure as a police officer, and as a man.

  “Thanks, Doc,” he’d mumbled on his way out the door. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Though the investigation and the psych eval had cleared him of all wrongdoing, the fact he’d been vindicated left him feeling worse than before, more guilty, more responsible. The investigation had forced him to drag the incident from his memory, stare at its ugliness a good long while, analyze it, and pick it apart. Every action, every second, every decision. By the time he was done, he knew that, whether they called it an “unfortunate accident” or not, he was responsible.

  As a result, he deserved to be punished, just like any perp. The fact that nobody was willing to dole out thirty lashes or send him down for hard time meant only one thing—if he was going to be properly castigated, he had to do it himself.

  For a couple of months after Cathy’s death, he’d tried drinking himself into oblivion, but alcohol had only made him sick. Drugs were out just on basic principle. Women had worked for a while. A different woman every night, or as often as he could manage it, just to keep the loneliness and the guilt at bay for a few hours. Nameless, faceless women, willing, certainly, but if they’d been interested in him as more than a bed partner, he’d never noticed. Besides, all sex had done was make him miss Cathy more; not only had he killed her, with every woman he laid, he betrayed her memory.

  So he’d left the force, borrowed a shitload of money, and immersed himself in getting Paladin off the ground. Fifty, sixty, eighty hours a week or more. He worked until his brain was so filled with it, there was no room for Cathy, for what he had done to her.

  Exhausted as he was, though, each night when he fell into bed, each time he lowered his lids, he remembered Cathy’s eyes as clearly as if she were standing in front of him. When the bullet struck, she’d raised her head, and her eyes locked on his. He watched her expression change from mild surprise, to horror, to pain, and then…nothing at all. She was nowhere; she was gone.

  Before he could get past the human debris standing between them, her body tumbled from the wharf into the bay. They told him later what he’d already known in his gut—she was dead before she hit the water. It hadn’t stopped him from plunging in after her.

  His throat tight with panic, he’d fought the rolling waves, tangles of kelp, blackness, in his desperation to get hold of her, pull her to him, save her. It was what he did, for Christ’s sake, save people.

  As lights danced across the water, he shouted her name. Then he saw her, floating near him no more than three feet away, face down, her hair swirling around her head like ribbons of golden seaweed.

  Salt water and salt
tears filled his mouth as he slapped at the hard sea, grabbing her and tugging her limp body to his chest. He called her name, trying to call her back, demanding she return to him.

  But he was too late.

  Things happen in life that are nobody’s fault, Ethan…

  Rising from behind his desk, he jammed Georgie’s file under one arm and stalked toward his office door.

  “Maybe sometimes, Doc,” he muttered as he locked it behind him. “But not this time.”

  As he exited the building, he looked around at the city, still quiet this early on a Saturday. It was barely eight a.m. and most people were probably still zonked, lazing about in bed, reading the paper, maybe even making love. A cool fog had drifted in overnight, hiding the hot August sun behind a screen of soft gray mist.

  The breeze wafting in from the bay was thick and salty, and he inhaled, trying to clear his head. Sliding behind the wheel of his car, he realized his dour thoughts had gotten to him. He needed more than a breath of fresh air; he needed Georgie.

  Her street was silent, her curtains drawn. He should probably call her first, give her a little warning.

  Nah, he thought. Where was the fun in that? For all her pissyness, Georgie was fun, and God knew he needed some right now.

  Besides, if he was lucky, he’d catch her in those hot jammies again. In spite of how wrong getting involved with her would be—wrong on so many levels—his heart thrummed a little faster, and his nerves rode along the sharp edge of reason at the mere thought of seeing her again.

  He knew she was home. With the weekend coming, he’d decided to put a guy on surveillance last night, just in case. But her car hadn’t left the garage, and she hadn’t had any visitors. Climbing the steps to her front door, he nodded, giving his man the all-clear to take off.

  In his left hand, he held a pressboard container sporting two steaming Starbucks coffees. With his free hand, he pressed the doorbell. There went those pretty chimes again.

  When she didn’t answer, he peered in through the etched-glass window to see Georgie standing in the living room, stock-still, her arms straight at her sides, staring at the front door as though he were Attila the Hun come to carry her away. She blinked a few times, rubbed her eyes, then seemed to recognize him. He knew the moment she registered who he was, when what appeared to be apprehension on her face morphed to definite disgust.

  He suppressed a laugh, then pressed the bell again and smiled at her through the glass.

  Her hair was all mussed up and hung loose around her shoulders. The sleep pants she wore were rumpled and hit her just below her hip, revealing her belly button. It was a tight little innie, and for a second it drove him wild.

  Her sleep pants were white, and printed with what looked like green frogs wearing gold crowns. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to extrapolate the message. His sister, Andie, had once told him that a girl had to kiss a lot of frogs before she found a prince, if she ever did. He wondered how many frogs Georgie had kissed, and whether she considered him a frog.

  While the pants were cute, it was the tank top that riveted his attention. It was thin and pale pink. One strap had slid down her arm, taking the neckline of the top with it, nearly exposing her left breast.

  He swallowed, sucked in a deep breath, then rapped his knuckles on the door.

  “Come on, Georgie,” he mumbled, as she meandered with slow deliberation toward the door. “Open up, or I’ll huff and I’ll Satisfaction and I’ll—”

  The door swung open. She put a hand on her bare hip and gave him the once-over.

  “Well, if it isn’t the one and only big, bad wolf. You really need to come by once in a while when I’m fully dressed.”

  “What would be the point in that?”

  Then she spotted the coffees, and her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes narrowed on him. “Tell me it’s not that decaf crap.”

  “Do I look like a decaf crap kind of guy?”

  She sniffed the air. “Oh, God. Um, orange mocha full-caff, uh, two percent, and whipped cream.” Her eyes drifted closed in what appeared to be orgasmic ecstasy, and she sighed. Through the sheer fabric of her top, he could see the small thrust of her dark nipples. Jesus, he’d never met a woman in his life he’d wanted so much to get his hands on. Guilt immediately assailed him, and he forced it aside.

  She opened her eyes, smiled, and stepped back. As she reached for one of the cups, she said, “Do you have the foggiest idea what time it is, Detective?”

  He nudged the door closed behind him with his hip, then popped his own coffee from the holder.

  “Hell, yes. Any later, and I’d’ve missed seeing those frogs hopping all over your ass.”

  She scowled, took a sip of coffee, then padded into the living room. Dropping into the couch in front of the bay window, she said, “Thanks for the breakfast. What do you want?”

  Easing himself onto the sofa across from her, he said, “I’m here to guard the aforementioned frog-encrusted ass of yours.”

  “Touch one pollywog and I’ll scream.” She popped the top off the coffee container, then puckered those luscious lips and blew across the steaming liquid. Over the rim of the cup, her eyes met his. “I told Ozzie I don’t like bodyguards.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t like coconut-mango-flavored chewable vitamins, but they keep me healthy.” He took a sip of his own coffee. “I think you need a bodyguard, and I’m bigger and stronger than you, so I win.”

  In her hand, the coffee cup seemed to tremble and a strange look crossed her face. “Has anything happened that you suddenly think I need your personal protection?”

  “Not that I know of,” he said slowly, trying to get a sense of what had happened to suddenly put her on guard. “You tell me. Has something happened?”

  She took a sip of coffee, swallowed, licked her lips. “No,” she said. “Just curious.”

  A lie. She’d taken too long to answer, as though she were debating what to tell him, or not tell him. The wary look in her eyes and her closed body position told him plenty.

  “So,” he said, “what’s the plan for the day?”

  Averting her eyes, she seemed to study the wall for a moment, then returned her attention to him. With a sexy little shrug, she said, “I’m leaving town for the weekend.”

  Ethan’s heart gave a jump. She’d left town last weekend—but he’d lost her trail. Surely she wouldn’t go wherever she’d gone last time, knowing he would follow. “Horton didn’t say anything about your taking a vacation.”

  She slid the strap of her top up her arm to her shoulder. “It’s not a vacation. I’m scheduled to visit a winery in Napa. A family operation. I went to college with the daughter. It’ll be boring, I’m sure. You won’t be missing a—”

  “I love Napa. I drove the sedan today, a very smooth ride.”

  Georgie straightened. Wrapping both her hands around the paper coffee cup, she said, “Well, tough noogies. You’re not invited. Besides, I’m staying overnight, so unless you packed a suitcase—”

  “Don’t need one,” he said lightly. When she sent him a warning look, he shrugged. “Hey, I’m a guy. The clothes I’ve got on won’t start smelling for at least two more days. I wasn’t due to change underwear until next Wednesday, anyhow.”

  God, she looked pissed. She was one of those women who was gorgeous when they were mad. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes snapped. For the first time in a long while, he wanted to laugh, but if he so much as chuckled, she’d probably punch him in the gut.

  She stood, her jaw tight with restrained fury. Assessing him for a moment, she tossed her head, then laughed casually.

  “You know what, Detective? It’s a free world. You can do what ever you damn well please.”

  Placing her hand against her collarbone, she said, “As for me, I’m going to shower and change, then hit the road in my car, by myself. You can follow me or not, I simply don’t care. But we are not, under any circumstances, going to drive to Napa together, spend any time there together,
do anything of any kind there…together. Do I make myself clear?”

  Chapter Ten

  When you take a vacation or travel, don’t invite snafus by leaving disorder behind. If you leave your house in a mess, you can expect the same energy to greet you during your trip. This can manifest as problems with bad rooms, muddled transportation, and difficult people.

  Georgiana Mundy’s Feng Shui for Lovers

  “You’re driving too fast,” Georgie groused, as her unwelcome bodyguard downshifted the luxurious four-passenger Mercedes, veering north onto I-80.

  She watched Ethan’s jaw muscle jerk. So he hated backseat drivers, did he?

  “I never driver faster than is safe, ma’am.”

  Tapping her finger on the padded leather cup holder by her left hand, she cooed, “Oh, come on, now. Fess up, Detective. You’re a frustrated Le Mans driver, aren’t you? Or maybe it’s Monte Carlo? Vroom-vrooming around the city streets, edging out the other drivers to speed across the finish line first, have them hand you that big gold cup, not to mention getting your photo taken with a giggling nubile young thing wearing a scrappy bit of nothing with her boobies falling out.”

  He sighed, loud and long. “Fast cars, trophies, boobies. Yeah, throw in some red meat, a keg of beer, and a remote control, and you pretty much have my dream life nailed, sweetheart.” He clicked his tongue. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous.”

  “Jealous? Look, it’s a nice day,” she huffed. “I’d like to enjoy the scenery instead of blasting through the valley at warp speed, Scotty.”

  “Aye, Captain,” he said in a very iffy brogue, then mumbled something under his breath.

  Late morning sunshine splashed across the nearby hills, washing the towering stands of eucalyptus lining the ribbon of highway with summer magic. Overhead, the sky was a brilliant blue.