Night Smoke Page 5

  Do you miss it?” She looked up at him then, and her hand went limp.

  He was still holding her against him, and his eyes were dark and focused on hers. “Now and again.”

  “Well, it’s— I should go.”

  “Yeah. You should go.” But he shifted her until she was wrapped in both his arms. Maybe it was a knee-jerk reaction to the sirens, maybe it was the exotic and irresistible scent of her, but his blood was pumping.

  And he wanted to see, just once, if she tasted as good as she looked.

  “This is insane,” she managed to say. She knew what he intended to do. What she wanted him to do. “This has got to be wrong.”

  His lips curved, just a little. “What’s your point?” Then his mouth closed over hers.

  She didn’t push back. For nearly one heartbeat, she didn’t respond. In that instant she thought she’d been paralyzed, struck deaf, dumb and blind. Then, in a tidal wave, every sense flooded back, every nerve snapped, every pulse jolted.

  His mouth was hard, as his hands were, as his body was. She felt terrifyingly, gloriously, feminine pressed against him. A need she hadn’t been aware of exploded into bloom. Her briefcase hit the floor with a thud as she wrapped herself around him.

  He was no longer thinking “just once.” A man would starve to death after only one taste. A man would certainly beg for more. She was soft and strong and sinfully sweet, with a flavor that both tempted and tormented.

  Heat radiated between them as the wind whipped in through the open doors at their back. The clatter of street noises, horns and tires, sounded around them, along with her dazed, throaty moan.

  He pulled back once to look at her face, saw himself in the cloudy green of her eyes, and then his mouth crushed hers again.

  No, this wasn’t going to happen just once.

  She couldn’t breathe. No longer wanted to. His lips were moving against hers, forming words she could neither hear nor understand. For the first time in her memory, she could do nothing but feel. And the feelings came so fast, so sharp and strong, they left her in tatters.

  He pulled back again, staggered by what had ripped through him in so short a time. He was winded, weak, and the sensation infuriated as much as it baffled him. She only stood there, staring at him with a mixture of shock and hunger in her eyes.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, and hooked his thumbs in his pockets.

  “Sorry?” she repeated. She sucked in a deep breath, wondered if her head would ever stop spinning. “Sorry?”

  “That’s right.” He couldn’t decide whether to curse her or himself. Damn it, his knees were weak. “That was out of line.”

  “Out of line.”

  She brushed her hair back from her face, furious to find her skin heated. He’d torn aside every defense, every line of control, and now he dared to apologize? Her chin snapped up, her shoulders straightened.

  “You’ve certainly got a way with words. Tell me, Inspector, do you paw all your suspects?”

  His eyes narrowed, kindled. “It was mutual pawing, and no, you’re the first.”

  “Lucky me.” Amazed, appalled, that she was very near tears, Natalie snatched up her briefcase. “I believe this concludes our meeting.”

  “Hold it.” Ryan played fair and cursed them both when she continued striding toward the doors. “I said, hold it.” He headed after her, and with one hand on her arm he spun her around.

  Her breath hissed out between clenched teeth. “I refuse to give in to the typical cliché of slapping you, but it’s costing me.”

  “I apologized.”

  “Stuff it.”

  Be reasonable, he cautioned himself. It was either that or kiss her again. “Look, Ms. Fletcher, you didn’t exactly fight me off.”

  “A mistake, I assure you, that will not be repeated.” She made it to the sidewalk this time before he caught her.

  “I don’t want you,” he said definitely.

  Insulted, provoked beyond her control, she jabbed a finger into his chest. “Oh, really? Then perhaps you’d care to explain that ham-handed maneuver in there?”

  “There was nothing ham-handed about it. I hardly touched you, and you went off like a rocket. It’s not my fault if you were ripe.”

  Her eyes went huge, ballistic. “Ripe? Ripe? Why you—you overbearing, arrogant self-absorbed idiot!”

  “Tell him, honey” was the advice of a toothy bag lady who shoved past with her teetering cart. “Don’t let him get away with it.”

  “That was a bad choice of words,” Ry responded, goaded into adding more fuel to the fire. “I should have said repressed.”

  “I am going to hit you.”

  “And,” he continued, ignoring her, “I should have said I don’t like wanting you.”

  Natalie concentrated for one moment on simply breathing. She would not, absolutely would not, lower herself to having a public brawl on the sidewalk. “That, Inspector Piasecki, may be the first and last time we ever have the same sentiment about anything. I don’t like it, either.”

  “Don’t like me wanting you, or don’t like you wanting me?”

  “Either.”

  He nodded, and they eyed each other like boxers between rounds. “So, we’ll talk it out tonight.”

  “We will not.”

  He would, he promised himself, be patient if it killed him. Or her. “Natalie, just how complicated do you want to make this?”

  “I don’t want to make it complicated, Ry. I want to make it impossible.”

  “Why?”

  She speared him with a look, skimming her gaze from the toes of his shoes to the top of his head. “I should think that would be obvious, even to you.”

  He rocked back on his heels. “I don’t know what it is about that snotty attitude of yours—it just does something for me. You want to play this traditional, with me asking you out to dinner, that routine?”

  She closed her eyes and prayed for patience. “I don’t seem to be getting through.” She opened them again. “No, I don’t want you asking me out to dinner, or any routine. What happened inside there was—”

  “Wild. Incredible.”

  “An aberration,” she said between her teeth.

  “It wouldn’t be a hardship to prove you wrong. But if we started that again out here, we’d probably be arrested before we were finished.” Ryan was enjoying himself now, immersed in the simple challenge of her. And he intended to win. “But I see what it is. I’ve spooked you. Now you’re afraid to be alone with me, afraid you’ll lose control.”

  Heat stung her cheeks. “That’s very lame.”

  He shrugged. “Works for me.”

  She studied him. He wanted to prove something? He was about to be disappointed. “All right. Eight o’clock. Chez Robert, on Third. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.” She turned away. “Oh, Piasecki,” she called over her shoulder. “They frown on eating with your fingers.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  * * *

  Natalie was sure she had lost her mind. She dashed into her apartment at 7:15. Facts, figures, projections, graphs, were all running through her head. And her phone was ringing.

  She caught the cordless on the fly and dashed into the bedroom to change. “Yes? What?”

  “Is that how Mom taught you to answer the phone?”

  “Boyd.” Some of the tension of the day drained away at the sound of her brother’s voice. “I’m sorry. I’ve just come in from the last of several mind-numbing meetings.”

  “Don’t look for sympathy here. You’re the one who opted to carry on the family tradition.”

  “Right you are.” She stepped out of her shoes. “So how’s the fight against crime and corruption in Denver, Captain Fletcher?”

  “We’re holding our own. Cilla and the kids send love, kisses and so forth.”

  “And send mine back at them. Aren’t they going to talk to me?”

  “I’m at the station. I’m a little conce
rned about crime out there in Urbana.”

  She searched through her closet, the phone caught in the curve of her shoulder. “How did you find out the fire was arson already? I barely found out myself.”

  “We have ways. Actually, I just got off the phone with the investigator in charge.”

  “Piasecki?” Natalie tossed a black dinner dress on her bed. “You talked to him?”

  “Ten minutes ago. It sounds like you’re in good hands, Nat.”

  “Not if I can help it,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  “He appears to know his job,” she said calmly. “Though his methods lack a certain style.”

  “Arson’s a dirty business. And a dangerous one. I’m worried about you, pal.”

  “Don’t be. You’re the cop, remember.” She struggled out of her jacket, promising herself she’d hang it up before she left. “I’m the CEO in the ivory tower.”

  “I’ve never known you to stay there. I want you to keep me up-to-date on the investigation.”

  “I can do that.” She wiggled out of her skirt, and guiltily left it pooled on the floor. “And tell Mom and Dad, if you talk to them before I do, that things are under control. I won’t bore you with all the business data—”

  “I appreciate that.”

  She grinned. Boyd had no patience with ledgers or bar graphs. “But I’m about to put another very colorful feather in the Fletcher Industries cap.”

  “With underwear.”

  “Lingerie, darling.” A little breathless, she fastened on a strapless black bra. “You can buy underwear at a drugstore.”

  “Right. Well, I can tell you on a personal level, Cilla and I have both thoroughly enjoyed the samples you sent out. I particularly liked the little red thing with the tiny hearts.”

  “I thought you would.” She stepped into the dress, tugged it up to her hips. “With Valentine’s Day coming up, you should think about ordering her the matching peignoir.”

  “Put it on my tab. Take care of yourself, Nat.”

  “I intend to. With any luck, I’ll be seeing you next month. I’m going to scout out locations in Denver.”

  “Your room’s ready for you anytime. And so are we. I love you.”

  “I love you, too. Bye.”

  She hung up by dropping the phone on the bed, freeing herself to zip the dress into place. Not exactly a sedate number, she mused, turning toward the mirror. Not with the way it draped off the shoulders and veed down over the curve of the breasts.

  Repressed? She shook back her hair. This ought to show him.

  The phone rang again, making her swear in disgust. She ignored the first ring and picked up her brush. By the third, she’d given up and pounced on the phone.

  “Hello?”

  Just breathing, quick, and a faint chuckle.

  “Hello? Is someone there?”

  “Midnight.”

  “What?” Distracted, she carried the phone to the dresser to select the right jewelry. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

  “Midnight. Witching hour. Wait and see.”

  When the phone clicked, she disconnected, set it down with a shake of her head. Cranks.

  “Use the answering machine, Natalie,” she ordered herself. “That’s what it’s there for.”

  A glance at her watch had her swearing again. She forgot the call as she went into grooming overdrive. She absolutely refused to be late.

  Chapter 4

  Natalie arrived at Chez Robert precisely at eight. The four-star French restaurant, with its floral walls and candlelit corners, had been a favorite of hers since she relocated to Urbana. Just stepping inside put her at ease. She had no more than checked her coat when she was greeted enthusiastically by the maître d’.

  He kissed her hand with a flourish and beamed. “Ah, Mademoiselle Fletcher … a pleasure, as always. I didn’t know you were dining with us this evening.”

  “I’m meeting a companion, André. A Mr. Piasecki.”

  “Pi …” Brows knit, André scanned his reservation book while he mentally sounded out the name. “Ah, yes, two for eight o’clock. Pizekee.”

  “Close enough,” Natalie murmured.

  “Your companion has not yet arrived, mademoiselle. Let me escort you to your table.” With a few quick and ruthless adjustments, André shifted Ryan’s reservation to suit his favorite customer, moving the seating from a small central table in the main traffic pattern to Natalie’s favorite quiet corner booth.

  “Thank you, André.” Already at home, Natalie settled into the booth with a little sigh. Beneath the table, her feet slipped out of her shoes.

  “My pleasure, as always. Would you care for a drink while you wait?”

  “A glass of champagne, thank you. My usual.”

  “Of course. Right away. And, mademoiselle, if I may be so presumptuous, the lobster Robert, tonight it is …” He kissed his fingers.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  While she waited, Natalie took out her date book and began to make notations on her schedule for the next day. She had nearly finished her champagne when Ry walked up to the table.

  She didn’t bother to glance up. “It’s a good thing I’m not a fire.”

  “I’m never late for a fire.” He took his seat, and they spent a moment measuring each other.

  So, he owned a suit, Natalie thought. And he looked good in it. Dark jacket, crisp white shirt, subtle gray tie. Even though his hair wasn’t quite tamed, it was definitely a more classic look than she’d expected from him.

  “I use it for funerals,” Ry said, reading her perfectly.

  She only lifted a brow. “Well, that certainly sets the tone for the evening, doesn’t it?”

  “You picked the spot,” he reminded her. He glanced around the restaurant. Quiet class, he mused. Just a tad ornate and stuffy—exactly what he’d expected. “So, how’s the food here?”

  “It’s excellent.”

  “Mademoiselle Fletcher.” Robert himself, small, plump, and tuxedoed, stopped by the table to kiss Natalie’s hand. “Bienvenue …” he began.

  Ry sat back, took out a cigarette and watched as they rattled away in French. She spoke it like a native. That, too, he’d expected.

  “Du champagne pour mademoiselle,” Robert told the waiter. “Et pour vous, monsieur?”

  “Beer,” Ry said. “American, if you’ve got it.”

  “Bien sûr.” Robert strutted back to the kitchen to harass his chef.

  “Well, Legs, that should have made your point,” Ry commented.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Just how out of place will he be in a fancy French restaurant where the owner kisses your knuckles and asks after your family?”

  “I don’t know what you’re—” Natalie frowned as she picked up her glass. “How do you know he asked after my family?”

  “I have a French-Canadian grandmother. I probably speak the lingo nearly as well as you do, even if the accent isn’t as classy.” He blew out a stream of smoke and smiled at her through it. “I didn’t peg you as a snob, Natalie.”

  “I certainly am not a snob.” Insulted, she set her glass down again, her shoulders stiffening. But when he only continued to smile, a little frisson of guilt worked its way through her conscience. “Maybe I wanted to make you a little uncomfortable.” She sighed, gave up. “A lot uncomfortable. You annoyed me.”

  “I did better than that.” Angling his head, he gave her a long, slow study. She looked like something a man might beg for. Creamy skin flowing out of a black dress, just a few sparkles here and there, sleek golden hair curving around her face. Big, sulky green eyes, red mouth.

  Oh, yes, he decided. A man would surely beg.

  Her nerves began to jangle as he continued to stare. “Is there a problem?”

  “No, no problem. Did you wear that dress to make me uncomfortable?”

  “Yes.”

  He picked up his menu. “It’s working. How’s the steak here?”

  R
elax, she ordered herself. Obviously he was trying to make her crazy. “You won’t get better in the city. Though I generally prefer the seafood.”

  She pouted a bit as she studied her menu. The evening was not going as she’d planned. Not only had he seen through her, but he’d already turned the tables so that she looked and felt foolish. Try again, she told herself, and make the best of a bad deal.

  After they’d given their orders, Natalie took a deep breath. “I suppose, since we’re here, we might as well have a truce.”

  “Were we fighting?”

  “Let’s just try for a pleasant evening.” She picked up her champagne flute again, sipped. She was, after all, an expert in negotiations and diplomacy. “Let’s start with the obvious. Your name. Irish first, Eastern European last.”

  “Irish mother, Polish father.”

  “And a French-Canadian grandmother.”

  “On my mother’s side. My other grandmother’s a Scot.”

  “Which makes you—”

  “An all-American boy. You’ve got high-tea hands.” He picked up her hand, startling her by running his fingers down hers. “They go with your name. Upper-crust. Classy.”

  “Well.” After she’d tugged her hand free, she cleared her throat, giving undue attention to buttering a roll. “You said you were third-generation in the department.”

  “Do I make you nervous when I touch you?”

  “Yes. Let’s try to keep this simple.”

  “Why?”

  Since she had no ready answer for that, she let out a little huff of relief when their appetizers were served. “You must have always wanted to be a firefighter.”

  All right, he decided, they could cruise along at her speed for now. “Sure I did. I practically grew up at engine company 19, where my pop worked.”

  “I imagine there was some family pressure.”

  “No. How about you?”

  “Me?”