Under the Surface Page 8

  She cocked her head. Her hair fell in her eyes, and he lifted the other hand to tuck it behind her ear, then brushed his thumb over her mouth. She nipped at his thumb, then said, “Not as satisfied as I’ll be when we’re naked in bed and coming apart together.”

  Both hands dropped to her hips, tightening there as he rested his forehead on her collarbone and groaned, “Eve. Go upstairs. Please.”

  She ran her fingers into his hair and massaged the tight muscles at the base of his neck. He was strung tight, hard from his neck to his shoulders to his thighs to his cock, insistent between her legs. “Come on, Chad. Give in to the impulse. It’ll be so good, I promise. Rat’s-nest-hair-and-sore-muscles and maybe rug-burn-on-your-knees good. Your-friends-all-know-you-got-some good.”

  His even breaths halted for a moment, then he said, “I know, boss. I know how good it could be. But not tonight.” Gently but inexorably he shifted her and her purse until they were both outside the Jeep. He looked up at her landing. “Go on. I’m not leaving until you’re inside.”

  She climbed the stairs, gave him a little finger wave from the landing, opened the door, then locked all three bolts behind her. Only when she turned off the landing light did she hear the Jeep’s engine crank over.

  A kind, gentlemanly gesture from the man who wasn’t keeping chivalry alive. So serious, so intense. Eve leaned back against the door, memories of his unyielding body against hers flickering in her skin. That much restraint hardened a man, in more ways than one. He needed a release besides the physically pounding adrenaline rush of boxing, something that would leave him soft and satiated, not bruised and scraped and sore.

  She was just the woman to guide Chad down the impulsive path.

  * * *

  Well done, Detective Dorchester. You once again managed not to sleep with Eve Webber.

  Air huffed from Matt’s nostrils as he shot out of Eye Candy’s alley and onto the street. Yeah, he deserved a medal for keeping his pants zipped. Just what he needed, more pieces of metal added to the jumble at the back of his dresser drawer.

  Fuck. Telling himself he was just doing his job, that testing her to see if she betrayed the department’s confidence to a near-stranger, made him feel worse, not better. He should have sat on his hands, not touched her like he had a right. She was savvy. Sharp. Playful. And she worked her ass off. Without makeup she looked like a girl he’d still do a double take at because the intelligence, humor, and kindness were easier to see. In jeans and a T-shirt, her face scrubbed bare of makeup, he wanted her more, not less.

  He was lying to her. Bald-faced lying to her about who he was, why he was in her club, what he did. No one knew about Eve’s plans to buy the building behind Eye Candy. She was smart to keep that close to her chest, because any interest would drive up the price. But she didn’t have the money to buy the building, and almost no chance of getting a commercial mortgage.

  To Hawthorn, this was going to make Eve look like a really bad risk. Hawthorn hated risks, managed them obsessively. In pursuit of his goal of shutting down the Strykers, he’d be as ruthless with Eve as Lyle was.

  Impressions flashed through him as he drove. The way she ground against him was about as satisfying as a lap dance at a strip club, all teasing, simulated action, no release. The hot, sweet weight of her body against his, firm breasts against his chest, the pebbled tips of her nipples between his fingers, her hips rocking against him. Eve would take it slow for a little while, but it wouldn’t be long before she’d expect more from him, details, stories, a connection. He’d give it to her. He’d done it before in undercover operations. He did what he had to do to build trust, without a thought of betraying it because what mattered was justice, the department, getting the bad guys. Hell, he’d used people on the periphery before, gotten dirt on someone he could flip for the prosecution, cozied up to women with information, walked away without a second thought. The simple fact was that he wasn’t paid to be honorable. He was paid to solve cases by whatever legal means necessary.

  This was different, because Eve was different. He’d known her for less than a week and already he didn’t want to walk away.

  That option had closed to him the moment he walked through Eye Candy’s door with Chad Henderson’s ID in his wallet. He needed to let it go, do the task in front of him, and move on, like he always did. That’s what made him the best.

  In the flat, inky stillness just before dawn he parked his Jeep on the street in front of the house to avoid blocking in his brother’s modified SUV and sat in the car for a few minutes, letting that thought resonate through his consciousness. He’d forgotten what it was like to feel his heart jump when a woman walked in the door, butterflies flutter in his stomach when she smiled at him, brutal lust surge and sweep to the very edges of his skin. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel, period.

  Across the street, his house, a ranch with dormers, three bedrooms, and a bath he’d enlarged and refitted himself to meet Luke’s needs, sat dark and silent. Even from the Jeep he could hear the AC unit grinding away in the backyard. The neighbors now gave him pointed glances when he saw them. He’d inherited the house when his parents died, and the HVAC system was original, aging, and until this summer, far down on the list of renovations to make. A friend’s father who worked in construction had recommended a guy who’d give Matt a fair deal for a new unit, even let him help install it to reduce the labor costs. He just didn’t have time to call him.

  A bitter sound huffed from his chest. He’d told some truth there. When he wasn’t working he slept and fixed up the house. One truth among so many lies.

  He eased out of the Jeep, crossed the street, and let himself in.

  “I hope she was worth it.” The raspy voice came from his brother’s room.

  “I’m on a case,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

  In his bedroom he stripped, tossing the sweat-soaked clothes into the laundry basket in the corner, and glanced at the clock. Almost four a.m. Time for bed. That’s where Eve was, in her bed, all soft and loose-limbed. He, on the other hand, was strung tight and rock hard, exhausted deep down in his soul, but too wound up to sleep.

  Hands on his hips, he bent his head and closed his eyes. Luke’s faint whistling snores rumbled down the hall. He had to pare unnecessary, distracting emotions from duty and responsibility, lock them away. Resolute, he stepped into a pair of gray cotton shorts and laced up his shoes. The house had three bedrooms. He’d moved into his parents’ room, the one with a window onto the backyard. For safety reasons Luke’s was the first on the front side of the house; in case of fire, he wanted his brother closest to the front door. They’d turned his old room in the corner into a home gym with mirrored walls, a treadmill, a weight set, a heavy bag, and a speed bag. He started with the treadmill, knocking out five miles in half an hour before putting on the gel wrap gloves. Pounding the heavy bag held some appeal, but he wanted to shut down his mind, so he opted for the rhythm and endurance of the speed bag.

  It worked. By the time dawn lightened the sky outside the window he’d exhausted his body and mind along with his soul. Dispassionate again, from the recesses of his now-silent mind he felt sweat trickle down the column of his back in time to the rapid thumps of his heart against his ribs. He unwrapped the gloves. Five hours of sleep, another pot of coffee, and he’d be back on his game. Shower first.

  Want to share a shower?

  He kept the shower cool, partially to dissipate heat before he got into bed, partially as a preventative measure, but at the memory of Eve’s softly whispered words, despite the workout, the late hours, his physical and mental weariness, despite the cool water pelting his body, heat thumped strong and hard in his cock.

  Without conscious thought his hand skated down his abdomen and gripped his shaft. He kept the steady, slow pace, riding the rush as his balls tightened and the pressure grew. He imagined her naked, in his bed, under him, spread for him, body quivering as he drove into her, taking his time, right there with him
as the heat built, sucking them into the vortex. He slowed his strokes, and in his fantasy, she said his name, his real name when she came.

  A low groan escaped, inaudible, he hoped, under the running water and behind the closed door, as he bent forward, shuddering as an orgasm pulsed through him. Exhaustion and something more elemental that felt far too much like fear slammed a rock-fist against his ribcage. He turned off the shower, toweled off, and went to bed.

  Eventually he slept.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Normal. Look and act normal. Don’t bring any suspicion on your family. Keep it together, Eve.

  She took a deep breath of humid air saturated with late afternoon sunshine to steel herself for another Monday dinner with her parents, and opened the squeaky metal screen door. “Hello!” she called.

  “In the kitchen, Evie, dear.”

  She walked into the tiny house she’d called home her entire life. A Bose SoundDock identical to the one she used to play music on during prep was hooked up to an iPod on top of the piano, Lionel Hampton, her father’s favorite jazz artist, flying home at a low volume in the living room. She dropped her purse on the sofa, gave the knob on the window air conditioner a twist to cool the room for Caleb, and headed for the kitchen to find her mother.

  “Hi, Mom,” she said with a quick hug, then stood back to let her mother inspect her.

  “Very nice, dear.”

  She wore a chocolate brown knee-length skirt, a green blouse with three-quarter sleeves, and brown sandals, one of several outfits suitable for church, family dinners, and social occasions. “How can I help?”

  “Set the table. Caleb called. He’s preparing for trial and can’t make it, so we’re just three tonight.”

  “Dad didn’t invite anyone?” From her earliest memories, the numbers at Monday night suppers ranged from the four Webbers to as many as eleven or twelve crowded around the dining room table. Homeless people, recovering addicts, someone newly released from jail in need of a home-cooked meal before a ride to the halfway house four blocks east, fellow pastors and childhood friends traveling through on their way to and from vacations or conferences, Eve and Caleb’s friends, city council members. She’d learned the hospitality industry’s Golden Rule—make everyone feel comfortable and welcome—at home, from her parents’ example.

  Her mother pulled a dented metal pan from the oven. “Not tonight,” she said as she pulled back foil to reveal slabs of something edged in purple with seeds scattered in the middle green flesh simmered in red sauce.

  “What’s that?” Eve asked.

  “Baked eggplant,” her mother said in a harried voice. “Your father had another checkup with the cardiologist. His cholesterol is still too high. The doctor recommended a vegetarian diet.”

  Eve could imagine what her father thought about that, but since he was completely unable to boil water, he was at his wife’s mercy when it came to eating. “I thought for sure he’d invite Cesar,” Eve called from the dining room as she opened the drawers in the buffet to get the place mats.

  “How is Cesar?”

  “Struggling with algebra. Otherwise, fine.” She thought it best not to mention the altercation with Lyle Murphy, at least not until her mother had dinner on the table. The eggplant had reduced her normally unflappable mother to muttered almost-curses.

  Eve set the table, including the serving dishes her mother set in the pass-through window. The transition from the casserole dish to the serving dish rendered the baked eggplant an almost unrecognizable glop, but the steamed broccoli doused in lemon looked okay, as did the rice. Her mother walked down the hall to her husband’s office. As Eve took her seat, she heard her mother say, “Supper’s ready.”

  She got a quick kiss from her father before he sat down. A quiet grace, they passed the food, and her mother led off the conversation. “How’s business, Evie?”

  Her mother’s tone was polite, almost completely covering the tension underneath, but Eve knew what it cost her to even ask. “Steady,” she replied as her fork sank into a slice of eggplant she could only describe as mush. The cheese sprinkled on top had the texture of oily paste. “Is this mozzarella?” she asked, distracted.

  “Fat-free,” her mother said, an edge to her voice.

  Moving right along. “I hired another bartender,” she said quickly. The eggplant needed something, anything, so she looked around for the saltshaker. It was missing from the table, so she settled for a generous sprinkling of pepper.

  “I didn’t know you planned to hire another bartender,” her mother said.

  “He’s a replacement, not an add. I had to fire Brent,” she said, using energetic motions to section off another tiny piece of eggplant. Maybe if she actively feigned eating motions she’d convince her mother some of the food had actually gone into her mouth.

  “Not working out?”

  “He was working out too well,” Eve said. “I caught him in the back of a truck with a customer, so I fired him. The last thing I need is the bar getting a reputation as some kind of stud service.”

  Her mother’s lips tightened, but for once Eve wasn’t sure if her displeasure stemmed from Eve’s irregular job or from the mushy main course. Her mother pointedly looked at her father. Her father mournfully considered his unpalatable dinner, and Eve steeled her spine for one of three possible discussion tracks: Lack of Husband Prospects, Late-Night Hours in an Unsafe Environment, or …

  “I saw Lee McCullough last week at the SCC Board meeting. He said he’d be interested in seeing your resume for a position in their marketing department.”

  Lee McCullough was the VP of HR at Lancaster Life Insurance, so this was Door Number Three: Getting a Better Job. Eve kept her tone bright and positive. “Dad, that’s really kind of him, but I don’t need an interview, or career counseling, or a job. I have Eye Candy.”

  Her mother’s face tightened. “This is a good job, with benefits, and a career track. Lancaster Life is growing. They’re actually hiring, in this economy.”

  “They’re hiring for jobs in a gray-walled cube, with people wearing business casual for tedious meetings, working over a computer all day. I’m not going back to that.” She’d go back to the Met before chaining herself to a cube again.

  “Why not, Eve?” her mother said gently. “You’d have a steady salary, regular hours, some security.”

  Her parents grew up in what was euphemistically described as extreme poverty. She understood her parents’ drive for secure, stable lives for their children, knew where it came from. Benefits would be nice, but she was young and healthy, for now. “Mom, there is no security. Two years ago Lancaster Life laid off five percent of their work force, and the economy was better then.”

  “I’m sure Lee would protect you if that were to happen again.”

  “Lee would fire his own mother if the board of directors told him to.”

  True or not, this sharp statement earned her a quelling look from her father. “It can’t hurt to talk to him.”

  This was true. He might need a location for a holiday party, or even think of Eye Candy for team gatherings, but she wouldn’t deceive her father into thinking she was going for a job interview when she really intended to market her business to a member of the SCC board. When Eye Candy opened two months ago, Eve’s efforts to help the East Side’s most vulnerable workers became the weak spot in her parents’ persistent determination to shift her from provocative to respectable. She played this card without hesitation.

  “If I shut down Eye Candy now, I’m out five years of savings. My credit will need a decade to recover, and who would hire the people I currently employ?”

  “With a proper job you’d be able to offer internships to SCC clients,” he said.

  “Maybe, Dad. Maybe if I’m in a management role, maybe one a year, probably unpaid, and they’d probably go to college students. Right now I employ people who support some, if not all, of their extended families on what I pay them.”

  “Eve, we never dreamed you�
��d make as much as you have out of working as a cocktail waitress,” her mother started.

  She committed one of the Webber cardinal sins and interrupted a parent. “I dreamed it, Mom. Ten years ago. My concept, my business, my building, my employees, funneling money into our neighborhood, all of it something I made real. We need small businesses on the East Side.”

  A sharp look from both parents, then a few moments of silence while her mother cut her bright green broccoli into tiny florets. “You had your fun when you were younger, Eve, but you’re almost twenty-eight. It’s time to think about something different than nightlife and fun.”

  Nothing new would come from this conversation, so she simply said, “I appreciate your concern, Mom,” and changed the subject. “Dad, I talked to Cesar a couple of nights ago. He’s having trouble with algebra, but he’s going to come in for a little tutoring. I think he just needs a review on the order of operations and some one-on-one practice to boost his confidence.”

  “That’s a relief,” her father said, clearly as glad to change the subject as she was. “You’re doing a good thing tutoring him.”

  “I’m happy to do it,” Eve said.

  There was a moment of silence while everyone bowed to the inevitable and forced down a mouthful of eggplant. “You could open a flower shop,” her mother said.

  “Two have gone under in the last five years,” Eve replied, clinging to her patience with her fingernails.

  “I heard East High is having trouble filling the two open math positions.”

  Students at Eve’s alma mater had a reputation for breaking first-year teachers within a month or two. The graduation rate was the lowest in the tri-county area. Resigned, she gave up on the eggplant, angled her knife and fork together across her plate, and said, “One, I don’t have a teaching certificate. Two, I need a major in math to teach it in this state. Three, I don’t want to teach high school in any state.”

  “Then elementary school. You’d have summers off when babies came,” her mother said.