A Rare Chance (8 page)

He opened the door wide. “Of course.”

He waited for her to walk past him, noted the unevenness of her gait, the strain in the pretty eyes, as if she wasn't at all sure she'd done right by coming here.

“Stairs are down the hall, around to the right.”

That
seemed to make more sense to her. A basement apartment fit with the cop-turned-prosecutor image she had of him. Well, the image he'd had of her after spotting her at Fanueil Hall Marketplace on Friday didn't exactly square with reality either.

He went ahead of her down the steep stairs, pushing open his door, which he'd left unlocked.

“It's nice,” Gabriella said, taking in his apartment with an awkward wave of the hand.

“Thanks. Can I get you something to drink?”

“No thanks. I'm fine.”

“Have a seat then,” he said, gesturing toward the sitting area with its battered leather furniture.

She bypassed the couch, choosing the chair. Not going to risk having him plant himself next to her. He crossed over to the couch and sat down, watching her. She twisted her hands together, avoiding his eye. A bundle of nerves. Uncomfortable being in his apartment. Maybe even a little scared. Definitely more aware of him on a physical level than suited her. They had that in common, anyway.

“What's up?” he asked.

She took a small breath, and he could see her considerable willpower kick into gear as her dark eyes focused on him. “Pete Darrow knows everything.”

Cam nodded. “He always does.”

“He caught up with me after work, just a few minutes ago. He knows Scag's in town, he knows I rescued you on the rocks, he knows you were at my apartment on Saturday. He implied he's been following me to check out my personal security, to make sure that whoever tried to kidnap Joshua doesn't take a swipe at me.”

“You believe him?”

“I don't know what to believe. He said I shouldn't try pulling a fast one on him in the future.” She hesitated, licking her lips, her eyes drifting away. Then they came back, clear and determined. “You are who you say you are, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

She breathed out. “I checked the phone book just to be sure you hadn't lied to me, and your name was there, and here you are on lower Pinckney—”

“You want to see some ID?”

“No—no, I believe you.” Her dark gaze zeroed in on him. Not a woman to underestimate, Gabby Starr. “But I also know damned well you haven't told me everything. I can't fathom that you'd go to all this trouble because you don't like your ex-partner's choice of job. And Pete Darrow's behavior suggests that more's at stake for him too than just having to convince you he's done the right thing. Otherwise you two'd just have it out over a couple beers. Otherwise he wouldn't have left you to the tide the other night.”

Cam gave a mock shudder at her flurry of words as he got to his feet. “You think too much. Come on, let's get some dinner. An encounter with Pete Darrow's enough to work up anybody's appetite. I was going to whip up some pasta and something or another. That sound okay with you?”

“Sounds fine.” Her tone was only somewhat tentative. She smiled. “I'd planned to come in here guns blazing, you know. Figuratively speaking.”

“I know.”

She eyed him, easing to her feet. “You do, don't you?”

“It's that Scagliotti blood.”

She slid gracefully onto an oak stool at the breakfast bar while he put on some Sarah Vaughan in the background to mellow things out. He decided not to mention having recognized her by her legs, but they were damned attractive wrapped around the stool. All that weightlifting, he supposed, remembering the way she'd hoisted that rock off his shin Friday night.

As the music began, he ventured into his small kitchen on the other side of the bar and dug out a bottle of pinot noir. He opened it up on the counter in front of Gabriella and filled two glasses, aware of her dark eyes on him. He wondered if she felt the same tug of desire he did. She'd fight it if she did. Tony Scagliotti's daughter wouldn't want to let herself fall for a law enforcement type. And that was only the beginning of what stood between him and Gabriella Starr.

“You haven't talked to Pete Darrow about what happened out on Reading Point, have you?” she asked.

Cam welcomed the distraction from the kind of thinking that plainly wasn't going to get him anywhere. He handed her a glass of wine, took a sip of his own. “Nope. Pete's not going to tell me anything unless I beat it out of him, which isn't my style.” He rummaged in the refrigerator for fresh linguine, carrots, red onion, garlic, a couple tiny zucchini; he dropped the whole lot on the counter in front of Gabriella and her wine. “He doesn't think I trust him.”

“Well you don't.”

“Two months ago, I'd have said I trusted him with my life. Now, I don't know. He took my decision to join the district attorney's office as a personal betrayal. He never thought I'd go through with it and actually give up police work.”

“But it couldn't have come as a surprise,” she said. She tasted her wine, fingering the stem of the glass as if she were glad to have something to do with her hands. “He knew you went to law school, didn't he?”

“Yep. But I took my time about it. Pete figured it was just a hobby.”

“Heck of a hobby.”

Cam got out a nonstick skillet, set it on the stove, and heated up a tablespoon of olive oil. He rinsed off the vegetables and did a quick, uneven job of chopping them up before adding them to the skillet. Meanwhile, he set a pot of water on the stove to boil. “Suppose you tell me everything you know about the kidnap attempt on Joshua Reading last month.”

Not one to miss anything, Gabriella's eyes narrowed on him. “Why?”

“Because it got my friend Pete together with your bosses, the Reading brothers.”

“I'm not an eyewitness or anything. I doubt I know anything you don't know. In fact, given your credentials, probably less.”

“I understand. Just talk to me.”

She drank some more of her wine. Cam noticed that her fingers were slender, her nails cut short. He was, he knew, noticing too much about her.

“I know the basics,” she said. “Joshua was run off the road, bound, gagged, and threatened by three men in ski masks. He couldn't give the police a good description of any of them. They ran when a police car happened by.”

“Not on foot, I assume.”

“No. They jumped back in their car. Before the police realized what had happened, the car was gone and they couldn't get a license number. They haven't turned up any leads that I know of. It took place just south of Reading Point. It was a frightening experience for him. It would be for anyone.”

Cam stirred the vegetables in the skillet, drinking some of his wine. He had a vision of doing this every night with Gabriella, making dinner together, having wine; he quickly dispelled it. “Joshua have any theories?”

“We don't talk about it, but I've gotten the impression he's chalked it up to a relatively amateurish attempt to get money out of him. I think he's hoping the thugs got scared off and won't be back, especially now that he has Pete Darrow working for him.”

“He go to Darrow or did Darrow come to him?”

“He went to Darrow. I think he'd worked on the case; I'm not sure. Joshua and Titus have always been lax about their personal security. Titus still hates the idea of anything beyond an alarm system for his house. He insists the attack on Joshua was a fluke, not a hint of what's to come. Maybe that's wishful thinking, but they were both careful not to overhype the situation, especially when it became clear the police weren't getting anywhere in their investigation. Image is important in our business. Titus and Joshua want to seem in control, powerful—not victims.”

“Any chance Joshua just made the whole thing up?”

Aware of the growing suspicion in Gabriella's eyes, Cam lowered the soft, fresh pasta into the pot of boiling water. She set down her wineglass. She was a woman intensely attuned to every nuance of her surroundings—a pain in the neck, no doubt, to anyone trying to hide anything from her. “Why this emphasis on Joshua? It's Pete Darrow I don't trust.”

“I ask a lot of questions,” Cam said with a smile he hoped was reasonably convincing. He saw no gain in telling her about the rumors he'd heard about Joshua Reading and illegal weapons, not without at least some corroborating evidence. It wouldn't be fair to anyone involved. “Old habit. More wine?”

“Half a glass.”

She pushed her glass across the counter, and he splashed in the wine. She took a sip, watching him, her gaze not softening. He pulled the pot off the stove, drained the pasta, added the sautéed vegetables, parmesan, fresh ground pepper, and divided the result on two plates.

He came around and sat beside her. “No dining room,” he said. “Has a way of keeping things informal.”

“I don't mind. I think I've used my dining room twice since I moved in.” But she adjusted her position on the stool to make sure no part of her touched any of him. “I like the idea of dinner parties, but I never seem to get around to having them. And now Scag'd probably launch himself down the stairs right in the middle of dinner and lecture me on mealybugs.” She tasted her pasta. “A cop who can cook. Wait'll I tell Scag.”

Cam grinned at her, feeling her body close to his, imagining it closer. He suspected she was struggling with similar unwanted images. “I think you're glad to see him.”

She fingered the ends of her dark hair before answering. “I guess I am. There was a time I thought I might never see him again. I thought he'd come home to me in a box. That's morbid, I know.”

“But you and your father don't mince words. Have you told him everything?”

“More or less.”

“What, you didn't tell him I'm irresistible in my Bruins sweatshirt?”

Something flickered in her eyes, and Cam realized he'd struck a nerve. He suppressed a grin. No, Gabby Starr wasn't oblivious to the sexual sparks flying between them. She was noticing. She was paying attention.

Of course, so was he. If he wasn't careful, next thing he'd be kissing her, eating up what professional distance he had left.

“I haven't had a chance to tell him about Lizzie and Joshua,” she said, nothing in her tone suggesting that
she
was thinking about kissing
him.
“She's the one I was with at lunch on Friday. Lizzie Fairfax. She's an old friend. She brought Scag to Boston.”

In his research into Tony Scagliotti and his daughter, Cam had read about Lizzie Fairfax and her benevolence toward the orchid-hunting eccentrics. She'd never joined them on their adventures, preferring to participate from afar. Cam also knew of her parents: her father a prominent Boston cardiologist, her mother a relentless doer of good deeds.

“She helped him find a room over in Cambridge,” Gabriella went on. “She helped him arrange to get some of his stuff shipped up here. He didn't want to. He keeps insisting he'll be back on the road in a couple of weeks. I don't know what he'd have done without her.”

“Called you.”

“Scag call me?” She scoffed. “Not a chance. He won't take a dime from me. I can't even get him to let me pay him for his work in my greenhouse, although he doesn't seem to mind spending my money fast and furiously on supplies. No, after I decided to head back to Boston a year ago and told him one of these days he would have to slow down, he swore off ever asking me for help. He'd have rotted in Ecuador before calling me.”

Cam regarded her with a mix of amusement and insight, Gabriella Starr being no easy woman to figure out. “You two must be a hell of a pair.”

“Well, we do know where we stand with each other.”

They ate dinner, talking blues and jazz and orchids and favorite Boston restaurants. Gabriella talked a little bit about growing up on Cape Cod, sidestepping her parents' odd relationship. Instead she told of early morning walks in the bogs in the fall and the time she helped when several whales had beached themselves, the many times she and her mother had battened down the hatches for hurricanes and nasty, unnamed coastal storms. She'd had a different childhood but, it seemed to Cam, not an unhappy one.

“What about you?” she asked as they cleaned up the dishes together. “Did you grow up in Boston?”

“Yes.”

“Did you always want to live on Beacon Hill?”

He smiled. “I never did. It just worked out that way.”

“I can't imagine many cops live around here.”

“Nope.”

“Prosecutors?”

“A few.”

She hung a dish towel over the edge of the sink to dry, not seeming to mind his reticence. “Where did Pete Darrow live before moving to Joshua's?”

“West Roxbury. He has a nice apartment in a two-family. He hasn't gotten rid of it yet, but I don't know that that means anything. He was married for a little while about eight, ten years ago. They were both too young. He grew up in Dorchester, a real rough neighborhood. His folks moved out after his little brother got mixed up with the wrong crowd, landed up in juvenile hall. Pete was already at the academy. Anyway, the brother's a drug counselor now, lives back in his old neighborhood.”