Chapter 25
Tara Reynolds, the fiancée of Detective Joe Goodman, walks in to the row house they share around seven-fifteen in the evening. She tosses her keys onto the kitchen counter and immediately notices Joe’s shield and gun by a stack of mail. She frowns and turns, glancing up at the ceiling.
“Baby?” she calls out.
“Up here,” Joe replies a moment later.
Tara is five feet five inches tall, a curvy black woman with shoulder-length dark hair. She’s wearing a pair of brown slacks and a velvet tan jacket. She throws off her heels and begins to climb the carpeted stairs. When she reaches the top she rounds the corner, passing a guest room and bath. Their bedroom is directly in front of her, but she makes her way to the room on her right, which Joe has converted into an office.
He’s hunched over his desk, which is by the window. A computer sits on the table, as does a docking station for an iPod. He glances up and smiles.
“Hey, you,” he says, coming around the table to greet her. His arms go to Tara’s waist, and he pulls her into him, hugging her as their lips touch.
“Hey yourself,” she retorts, enjoying the contact. Joe’s hands slide down to her full backside as he massages the flesh. He grins as he hefts a cheek in each large hand. “What are you doing here?” she asks, looking up into his brown eyes.
Joe ignores the question as he kisses her on the mouth again, pulling her closer. She slips her tongue into his mouth as her hands snake around his neck. When he pulls back, she is eyeing him curiously.
“I see somebody missed me.”
“Missed my baby girl something fierce,” Joe says with a grin.
“So, answer my question. What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be working?”
Joe takes another step back as he nods his head.
“I put in a good six hours today, but had some stuff to look into, so I told the captain I’d be back later.” Tara is leaning against the desk and Joe goes over to her, placing his hands on her waist again. “Besides, I wanted to spend some quality time with my baby!” His tongue goes to her ear as she pats him away playfully.
“Translation, you wanted some!”
“Same difference. But I’m here. So you should take advantage of the situation.”
“I guess so. Let me go change.”
She walks out of the office and into the bedroom. Joe follows behind her.
“Besides,” he adds, “since you’re going to be Mrs. Joe Goodman in less than a year, you might as well practice what the wedding vows preach. You know, ‘To have and to hold, and to always obey . . .’ ”
Tara turns to him.
“I don’t recall anything in the vows about having to obey.”
“Oh, yeah. You have to obey your man. And right now your man is commanding you to take off all of them clothes.”
Tara’s jacket hits the bed. She unbuckles her belt and unbuttons her pants. “Is that so?”
Joe nods slowly.
Tara lets her slacks drop to the floor. Joe watches her as she steps out of them, her fit calves like those of a dancer’s, enthralling. Her panties are black stretch lace boyshorts, and Joe squints as if in pain. Tara is unbuttoning her top, a silky white thing, exposing a black-laced bra. She unhooks it from the back and flings the bra to the bed, displaying her firm C-cup breasts. Joe is halfway undressed already, and almost trips when his ankle gets bunched up in his pant leg. Tara laughs.
“Don’t kill yourself. At least not until I’m done with you.” She winks and heads into the bathroom, where she runs the shower. Tara pops her head out and says to Joe, who is down to his boxers and socks, “Let me take a quick shower. I promise I won’t be long.”
Joe nods. He is preparing to lie on the bed, but decides to head to the bathroom instead. The door is open and he can see Tara through the translucent shower curtain. She is soaping up her body as he stares impatiently. He rests his hip on the doorframe as he watches her, feeling his manhood harden.
“Can I help you with that?” he asks.
“With what?” she replies, her back to him.
“Get clean.”
Tara faces him and smiles. “Sure.”
Joe is removing his boxers and socks, leaving the pile at his feet. He is semihard now, gazing at his fiancée, watching the soap cascade down her body in rivulets. He takes a step toward her, one leg inside the shower as he says, “Kennedy came to see me today.”
Tara has the washcloth to her neck when she stops and turns abruptly. “What did you say?” She turns the shower off, soap still covering her torso and midsection.
Joe backs up and repeats. “Kennedy came to see me today.” He realizes too late that this was bad timing on his part.
Very bad timing.
Tara calmly opens the curtain as she stares in amazement at him. “Your ex came here?” Her eyes are laser beams.
“No, baby. She needed my help on a case. We met at a coffee shop.” He almost uttered “the coffee shop down the street,” which would have incited violence if Tara found out that Kennedy had indeed been to the house to pick him up.
“A case,” Tara says, arms folded across her chest. Soap clings to her forearms and pubic hair, but she makes no move to wipe it away.
“Yeah. She’s in trouble.”
Tara nods, sucking her teeth. She ponders his words for a moment.
“And? She can’t call the police like the rest of us normal folks?”
Joe grins sheepishly.
“Baby, come on. It’s not like that.”
An eyebrow is raised.
“Please tell me what it’s like, then.”
She stares at him for another few seconds before restarting the shower. “Let me finish my shower. I’ll be right out.”
Joe takes the hint, grabbing his boxers and socks, and retreats from the room. He closes the door quietly behind him, leaving Tara to stew in peace, alone.
Chapter 26
For a few seconds Joe considers lying naked on top of the bedspread as he waits for Tara to come out.
But it only takes a microsecond to see that this course of action will only make matters worse.
Tara is pissed.
And Joe is so damn stupid.
He was close—this close to having sex with his woman—and God knows why he chose that moment, that
exact
moment, to bring up his ex, Kennedy.
What the hell was he thinking?
He knows exactly what he was thinking....
Joe grabs a pair of sweats and a faded DEA T-shirt and dons them. He exhales forcefully, angrily.
So stupid.
He could be inside her this very second....
What he had to say could have waited.
But, of course, he’s been unable to get Kennedy out of his head.
She was always so beautiful. And now, seeing her after all this time has caused him to remember what they once had.
Before things turned sour.
God, what a woman she was.
What a woman she is.
Stop it,
he tells himself.
Kennedy is married. Besides, Joe is engaged—to a beautiful woman in her own right.
He can still hear the shower going, so Joe escapes to his office.
He glances at the legal pad on the desk.
Names, dates, locations. Other pertinent information that Kennedy has provided.
Names, dates, locations.
The list holds sixteen names.
Sixteen partners.
Sixteen sexual liaisons.
Joe lets the weight of that sink in.
Scanning the list, he notes the locations. His mind races as he conjures up images of these sensual trysts.
New York, Jamaica, Baltimore, Atlanta, Philadelphia, Miami, Paris, London, Aruba, the Dominican Republic, Belize.
Romantic getaways. Exotic locales. Sexual encounters.
He can’t help but feel a rush of jealousy accompanying these thoughts.
Can’t help wondering why it was Michael and not he.
Our marriage needed you to act like a husband, not a free agent.
A free agent . . .
Kennedy was right.
He was a fool back then. Joe had had something special, and he had fucked it up big-time.
His fingers go to the names on the page. He touches the dried ink and feels shame and regret.
It could have been him.
New York, Jamaica, Baltimore, Atlanta, Philadelphia, Miami, Paris, London, Aruba, the Dominican Republic, Belize.
It could have been him.
Joe turns. Tara, wrapped in a bathrobe, is standing in the doorway, watching him silently. Their eyes meet. Her arms are folded across her chest, as before. Joe traces the line of his scar absentmindedly.
“Spill it,” she says after what seems like an eternity.
Joe sighs and begins.
“Kennedy and her husband are being stalked. E-mails have been sent to her home and her job, and she’s been threatened. She asked me to look into it.”
“And of course Joe Goodman just loves playing the black knight.”
“What does that mean?” he retorts somewhat heatedly.
“Rescuing the damsel in distress. Said damsel being your ex-wife. How perfect.” Tara turns on the balls of her feet and heads into the bedroom. Joe follows close behind her.
“It’s not like that, Tara.”
She has her back to him, but he reaches for her shoulder, gently applying pressure until she is facing him. “Look, baby, I love you,” he says. “This is business. My ex-wife and her husband are in trouble. I am a police officer. This is what I do. There is nothing more to this than that.”
“Are you sure?” Tara asks, her stare directed into his. “Because you were hurting when she left you.”
Joe blinks.
“That was a long time ago. I’m over her. Been over her for a long, long time. You know this.”
Joe reaches for her arms. His fingers interlock with hers. He kisses her gingerly on the forehead. Then, moving downward, to her nose, cheek, and finally her mouth.
Tara lets him kiss her. She holds nothing back. She responds by wrapping her arms around his back and moving closer.
“I just need to be sure,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “If we’re to be married, I don’t need anything getting in the way. Nothing from the past or the present. It’s just me and you, Joe Goodman. No one else.”
He kisses her again. She can feel him stirring against her. She can feel his strength and weakness all at once.
“I know,” Joe says before kissing her lips sensuously, then the nape of her neck. “You have nothing to worry about. This I promise.”
The robe opens. Joe steps back, marveling as he does each time he gazes upon Tara’s loveliness. He touches her face, letting his fingers drop to her firm breasts and nipples, which seem to tighten at his touch. Her skin is smooth, silky, like a chocolate bar. Her hands are at his waist now. They slip under the fabric of the sweatpants and feel his taut flesh, descending until she finds what she is searching for. Tara wraps her fingers around his girth and begins to stroke him, feeling him harden to her touch. Joe pulls down the sweats as Tara holds on. The shirt comes off next, and suddenly Tara and Joe are falling onto the bed. His mouth is on hers, sucking her tongue into his mouth with an urgency that excites her. And then he is slipping inside her, not forcibly, but in a way that says I need you
now,
Tara sucking in a quick breath and moaning with pleasure as she opens her legs to accept him, his hands on her ass, massaging her in a way that drives Tara absolutely crazy.
“Do you love me?” she asks breathlessly.
Joe responds by pushing himself inside fully until there is nowhere left to go. They begin to move together, in a rhythm that is sweet and pure.
“Yes, baby,” he responds, equally breathlessly. The feeling is one of sheer delight. Joe is home. Once again he has returned to the place where everything makes sense. He pulls, then pushes into her wetness and warmth slowly. “Baby, you know I do. . . .”
Chapter 27
The man walks into the 2020 Bistro & Lounge located in the Radisson Hotel in Crystal City, Virginia, smiles at the young female maître d’, and gestures to the bar area. She steps aside with a smile, and he walks on. The place isn’t very crowded this time of night. It’s just after nine, and the dinner crowd is thinning. He takes a seat at the bar and orders a scotch on the rocks.
The flight in was uneventful. Security was a breeze. He’d checked two bags at the terminal, and he carried nothing suspicious in his carry-on—laptop, a paperback, a few magazines he bought in the airport newsstand, some gum, a half-empty bottle of extra-strength Tylenol, his MP3 player, and cell phone—innocuous stuff like that. He had to wait a long time at Reagan National’s baggage claim—God knows why; how difficult is it to remove some person’s luggage from the underbelly of a plane?—but these things can’t be helped. Nonetheless, he’s here now, perhaps a mile, no more, from the Fourteenth Street Bridge, which will take him into the nation’s capital—tomorrow, when the time is right.
He can’t wait. The excitement makes his brain spin.
But now he’s in desperate need of a drink. His scotch on the rocks arrives; the man reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out the Tylenol, pops the top, spreads six or seven Rapid Release gels in his palm, and downs them with two swigs of his drink.
His head is pounding.
The calm that had embraced him early in the week has gone, replaced with this incessant throbbing that threatens to drive him insane.
Or kill him.
His remedy?
Stay heavily medicated, and drink plenty of fluids.
Hence, the scotch on the rocks.
He orders another, shaking his head when the bartender asks if he’d like to see a dinner menu.
The liquor goes down hard, but the pain is fleeting. He can feel the Rapid Release gels spreading like spilled molasses. Soon, now, the pain will dissipate to a dull throb. The man is wired, on edge. He’s close, he can taste it, and this has his adrenaline spiking. He’s thinking about them—the couple he’s come to see—and all he has in store for them. It’s a mix of ravenous excitement and anxiety, as if he were having sex with someone in public. The idea of getting caught with one’s pants down, literally—thrilling and yet terrifying at the very same time.
A well-dressed woman sashays up to the bar and takes a seat two stools down from him. She glances his way and smiles. And why shouldn’t she? He’s tall, over six feet two, good looking, in great shape, neatly dressed in jeans, a gray tight-fitting shirt, and a black microsuede sport coat. His bald head is freshly shaved and gleaming. But what will get her, he knows, is his killer smile.
A smile to die for.
He flashes it for her now. And she beams in return.
The bartender is in front of her, asking what she’d like to drink. She is indecisive, so the man clears his throat and leans in, politely asking, “Will you permit me to order for you? If you don’t like it, you can send it back, no questions asked.”
Flash the smile.
“All right. Thank you!”
He looks at the bartender. “French martini for the lady. Grey Goose, please.”
“Excellent choice, sir.”
The woman puts her purse on the stool between them. He observes her: middle-aged, blond, suit jacket and matching skirt, no nylons, very nice long legs. Her drink arrives; she sips it tentatively, then turns to him and grins, toasting him.
“Delicious, thank you again.”
“Don’t mention it,” he replies.
She takes another sip, puts the glass down, and leans toward him. “So, do you come here often?” she asks with a smile. “I’m sorry, that sounded so clichéd.”
He gets off his bar stool and moves until there is only one seat separating them. Signaling the bartender for another scotch, he answers, “First time for me. You?”
She waves her arm in the air in a dismissive way.
“Oh, no, I’m a frequent visitor here.” She smiles again.
“Let me guess,” he says. “Sales.”
She stares at him uncomprehendingly. “Wow, you’re good. How did you know?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “You’ve got that look—no, I mean that in a positive way. Speak well, very attractive, on your game. Yeah, definitely sales.”
“Well, thank you. What else can you tell me about me?”
He smiles. “Let me see. We’re here in Crystal City, so I’d say your clients are most likely federal government, and if I had to bet, I’d say you sell software, or some kind of technology.”
She stares at him for a moment.
“Okay,” she says. “This is scary.”
He grins. “How’d I do?”
“Umm, dead on. I do technical sales for a software-development firm.”
“Damn, I’m good!”
“I’ll say. So, how about you? Business or pleasure?”
“Hopefully a bit of both. I’m Damian, by the way.” He reaches out his hand. She takes it in hers, leaving it a millisecond longer than necessary.
“Lorie. And the pleasure’s all mine. . . .”