Deep Blue (19 page)

Artie shoved to his feet, his face a violent shade of red. “What the hell? I told you to stay out of this!”

Hope came up out of her chair. “I am out. I’m thousands of miles away. Besides, now Buddy’s dead so it really doesn’t matter. Though I kind of hoped you might be interested in taking a closer look at what actually went on there.”

“I told you, Hope. The paper’s taken a stand. They think tearing that building down is good for the neighborhood—hell, good for the whole damned city. They aren’t interested in digging up dirt that might keep that from happening.”

Artie sat back down in his chair and Hope eased back down as well.

“Now here’s the way it’s going to be. Either you go back and complete your assignment—”

“I sent the second article in over the Net before I left to come back here.”

“Yeah, well, now you can get back there and finish the third. By the time you get done, all this will be settled and you can get your ass back to work.”

“I thought I
was
working.”

Artie looked at her over the top of the paper he had just picked up. “Get out of here, Sinclair. Before the job I’m holding disappears.”

Hope didn’t argue, but Artie had just confirmed her suspicions. She had been assigned to do a story in the middle of nowhere
not
because Brad Talbot had liked the work she had done before. He just wanted her away from the city. It was a very good bet Brad Talbot was one of those nameless men trying to develop the Hartley House property.

Unfortunately, Hope didn’t think there was any way to prove it.

Beyond that, the building would soon be sold and the project would go forward. The tenants at Hartley House would lose their homes and it didn’t look like there was a damned thing she could do.

She had almost reached the door when she heard Artie’s gravelly voice behind her. “One more thing.”

She stopped and turned. “Yes?”

“Do yourself a favor, Hope. Forget whatever it is you think you’ve found out. One old man is already dead. I don’t have any idea what’s going on and I don’t want to know. I do know that whatever it is, it’s dangerous to be on the wrong side of this thing.”

Hope made no reply, just turned and started walking, her legs a little wobbly. She felt bitter and betrayed and a little bit frightened. If Artie knew she had returned to the city, so might someone else. Odds were, her opposition to the project no longer mattered, since it appeared the developers—whoever they were—were going to get what they wanted.

Still, the deal wasn’t made yet, and until she was safely back aboard the
Conquest,
she would need to stay alert. Silently grateful that Conn had come with her, she spotted him in the reception area as she walked in.

Conn saw her and came to his feet. “Everything okay?” The familiar deep voice sent a leap of awareness through her. For days she had been doing her best to ignore him. It was getting harder and harder to do.

“If you call letting the bad guys get away with murder, everything’s peachy.”

They started for the elevator, stood in front of the doors until it arrived on their floor. Then the bell chimed, the elevator doors slid open, and Gordy Wietzman walked out.

“Hey, Hope!” He glanced from her to the office. “I sure didn’t expect to see
you
here.”

“Yes, well, you can thank our friend, Randy Hicks, for that. He found out I was at the hospital visiting Buddy and ran straight back to tell Artie I was in town.”

“I don’t suppose that made Artie too happy.” Gordy turned his attention to Conn. “Gordy Weitzman. I work with Hope.” He stuck out his hand and Conn grasped it.

“Conner Reese. I guess you could say I’m her current assignment.”

“Is that so?”

“Conn’s one of the partners in Treasure Limited. He’s heading up the search operation.”

“Nice to meet you.” Gordy’s gaze slid over Conn with the practiced eye of a reporter. Aside from the air of competence Conn wore like a comfortable shirt, Hope wondered what else Gordy saw.

The reporter shook his head. “That whole thing with Buddy Newton…that really sucks. The old guy caught a really bad break.” Gordy was shorter than Conn, but not much, lean, and fair-haired. He was divorced and on the prowl, but after his first
no
from Hope, he had accepted the fact they were never going to be more than friends. She thought that in a way he’d been relieved.

“I still can’t believe Buddy’s gone,” she said.

“Be interesting to see what happens next.” Gordy shifted the briefcase he was carrying into his other hand. “I know the old man had a will, but nobody seems to know who’s going to inherit. Looks like whoever it is, the guy’s going to make out like a bandit.”

“Sounds like it,” she said.

“How’s Deitz working out?”

“I like him. Better yet, I trust him.”

“He come up with anything useful?”

Hope explained Jimmy’s theory that the properties north and south of Hartley House were actually owned by the same people, that they were trying to connect all three riverfront pieces, and that hundreds of millions of dollars were involved.

“That’s something, I guess, but I don’t know how much good it’ll do you, now that the old man’s dead and the piece will belong to someone else.” Gordy tipped his head toward the door leading in to the main part of the office. “Listen, I gotta run. You need anything, just call.”

“Thanks, Gordy.”

Hope watched him leave and so did Conn.

“Seems like a nice enough guy.” Conn’s eyes remained on Gordy until the door closed behind him. “I guess you figure you can trust him.”

“Gordy’s helped me from the start. I’m lucky to have him for a friend.”

“Is he? Just a friend, I mean?”

Hope flicked Conn a glance. “The truth is, I think there’s a chance he’s gay but if he is, he’s fighting it and he’s definitely not out of the closet. And yes, we’re just friends.”

Conn said nothing more, but the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. Another elevator arrived. They walked in and rode down to the lobby. Conn hailed a cab out on Twenty-second Street, opened the door, and they slid onto the black leather seat.

“Buddy’s funeral’s tomorrow,” Conn said as the cab roared over the slick streets back to her apartment. “That’s not going to be any more fun than the rest of this trip. We’ll be catching a plane tomorrow afternoon and going back to work. But tonight we’ll be in New York City. I don’t think Buddy would mind if we went out to dinner someplace nice, maybe listened to some jazz somewhere afterward.”

Hope looked up at him. Buddy was gone. Conn had come thousands of miles just to watch out for her if she ran into trouble. She owed him something for that. An evening in the city didn’t seem like much of a price to pay.

Hope smiled. “I knew you liked jazz. You took me to the Palms, and sometimes at night, I could hear the music on your CD, seeping through the wall between our cabins.”

“You’ve got a pretty fair collection yourself. Dave Brubeck, Miles Davis. You’ve got Mingus and Nick Drake.”

“It was better before those jerks broke in and banged up some of the albums. Fortunately, most of them survived.”

“Then maybe we should just go home after dinner and listen to music at your place.” She didn’t miss the heat in his eyes and a soft pang went through her.

Hope forced a smile. “And maybe your first idea was best. When we get back to the apartment, I’ll call and make dinner reservations. I know a great little Italian place just around the corner, very classy but quiet, and the food is really great. There’s a jazz bar not too far away.”

“Sounds good to me.” But desire still burned in those blue, blue eyes and it did not go away.

Twenty minutes later, Artie Green was still grumbling about Hope Sinclair. When he opened his office door, preoccupied as he usually was, he was a little surprised to see Randy Hicks, knuckles raised to knock, on the opposite side of the glass.

“What’s up?” Artie asked.

Randy cocked his head toward the door leading out to the reception room. “I thought I saw Hope Sinclair in here.”

Artie stepped back and motioned him in. “She was here. I wanted to know what the hell she was doing in New York when she’s supposed to be on assignment somewhere else.”

“What’d she say?” Randy was fifty-five years old, black hair going to gray, a body still thin but had seen better days.

“The woman’s all wound up in this Buddy Newton thing. She’s convinced something shady’s going on, gave me some crap about a project worth millions of dollars—enough, I gather, that she thinks Buddy was targeted as a way of forcing him to sell.”

“It’s possible, I guess.” Though Hicks was only in his mid-fifties, his big goal in life was to retire. He’d started in the newspaper business when he was just a kid. Now, thirty-five years later, he was bored and lackadaisical, jaded and itching to quit. Three months from now, he would start getting his pension and it was obvious the man could hardly wait.

“It’s possible,” Artie repeated, “but you don’t think that’s the way it is.”

Randy shook his head, his hair, a little shaggy, brushing the tips of his ears. “I think Newton’s building is in piss-poor shape and needs to come down. I think the old man was mugged in his own neighborhood, which just proves they need to make the area safer. A new building, with more upscale tenants, would be a major benefit. That’s what I wrote and that’s what I think.”

“Hope’s not convinced. I warned her to stay out of this. I hope to hell she listens.”

“I don’t know…she can be pretty stubborn.”

One of Artie’s thick eyebrows hiked up. “No kidding.” He glanced toward the door. “So what was it you wanted to see me about?”

“What? Oh…uh, I was just checking to see if you wanted any kind of follow-up on the story I did about the bookstore owner who has his entire house filled floor-to-ceiling with books.”

“The guy’s a kook. One piece is plenty. I thought you were working on something else.”

“I am. I just…I guess I’d better get back and finish.”

“Good idea,” Artie said. He watched Randy leave, thinking how much he would love to fire the lazy bum, but with only three months to go, he just couldn’t do it.

Artie grunted. And people said he didn’t have a heart.

The Italian restaurant, Café Fiore, was even better than Hope remembered. It was kind of expensive so she rarely went to dinner there, but with all that had happened, she needed a little lift and she thought that Conn would enjoy it.

The interior was all beige and cream, with soft lighting, soft music, small white flowers on the tables, and waiters who kept their distance while still giving patrons great service.

“You were right,” Conn said. “This place is great. And the food’s terrific.”

“I have to say, your veal marsala really looks good.”

Conn smiled. He had the sexiest smile. She wondered why she hadn’t noticed.

“Want a bite?” He cut off a forkful and held it up invitingly, but the thought of him feeding her seemed incredibly erotic and Hope shook her head.

“I’ve got all I can handle right here.” Fillet of halibut encrusted with hazelnuts, served over a bed of mashed potatoes and sautéed spinach. Lord, it was good.

They finished the meal and a bottle of good Chianti, then ordered tiramisu and cups of foamy cappuccino for dessert. She was pleasantly stuffed by the time they argued over the bill, Conn insisting he pay and getting his way as usual. At the front of the restaurant, he helped her pull her coat on over her simple black sheath dress, dragged his overcoat on over the navy blue jacket and dark gray slacks he wore, and they stepped out onto the sidewalk.

The wind was blowing but not too hard, and the crisp, chill air was invigorating.

“I know it’s cold for a sun rat like you,” she said, “but I could sure use a walk. Club Seventy-seven isn’t really that far away.”

He cast her a heated glance. “A little exercise sounds good to me, though I’d rather do something more interesting than walking.”

Hope’s gaze shot to his face and she caught the faint curve of his lips. Biting back a smile, she took his arm and they started down the sidewalk.

The pavement was wet, reflecting the red, yellow, and green of the streetlights at the corner. The bar was a little bit farther away than she remembered, the night air a little colder than she’d thought. By the time they had walked six blocks, the tips of her fingers were numb inside her gloves and her toes felt like little cubes of ice in her black high heels. Conn had the collar of his overcoat turned up but he had taken off his gloves and stuffed them in his pocket.

An instant later, she understood why.

“Don’t turn, just keep walking. We’re being followed.”

She automatically started to turn, but Conn tightened his hold on her arm and she kept on walking. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, he’s back there, all right. Tall guy, black leather jacket, wool cap pulled down over his ears. The question is why?”

As they continued along the sidewalk, the darkness seemed to close in on them. The sound of their footsteps seemed louder, the click of her high heels like nails hitting concrete, the icy air even more frigid, seeping into her very bones. Most of the shops on the street were closed, the interiors dimly lit or not at all. Black vinyl garbage bags sat next to locked doors, ready for pickup early in the morning.

“Is he still there?” Hope asked softly, her pulse beating faster, beginning to drum in her ears.

“He’s there. How much farther to the club?”

“Two more blocks.”

Conn made no reply, but she could tell he wasn’t pleased. Her heartbeat quickened even more. She started to increase her pace, but Conn held her back. “Easy.”

They kept their pace even, moving rapidly along but not running. Then, at the next alley they passed, two men stepped out on the sidewalk right behind them. Both men were wearing ski masks pulled down over their faces, and a streak of fear shot through her. She heard Conn softly curse. Farther down the block, the ring of running footsteps echoed on the pavement, and she knew the man following them was hurrying to catch up with his friends.

“Get ready,” Conn said softly. She felt his hand on her back. He propelled her ahead of him and spun to face the men. “Run!” he shouted. “Get inside the club!”

She didn’t, of course, and everything happened at once.

The first man shot forward and Conn kicked out, his heel slamming into the man’s shin, knocking him violently backward. He screamed as he hit the pavement, rolled several times, and crashed into a rough brick wall. The second man came in from behind, landing a glancing blow to Conn’s cheek before Conn grabbed him and whirled him around, wrenched his arm up behind his back, and slammed him up against the wall.

Hope saw the gun in the man’s hand and screamed the instant before it went flying. The pistol hit the pavement ten feet away and slid into the gutter. The man—white, she could tell from his hands—average in height and wearing jeans and a jacket, turned and kicked out, and Conn shoved his arm even higher.

“Call off your dogs,” Conn warned.

“Fuck you, man!” He tried to turn, lashed out again with his foot. The bone in his arm snapped with a crack that echoed along the sidewalk. Conn let him go and he slumped down on the walk a few feet away from his friend, whimpering in pain.

The third man raced out of the shadows behind them, making a fierce growling sound as he attacked. They traded a couple of punches, then, in the light of a distant street lamp, Hope saw the glitter of a blade flash from the pocket of the man’s black leather coat.

“Conn, he’s got a knife!” For a terrifying instant, his attention shifted to her.

“Dammit, I told you to get out of here!” He whirled toward the threat and Hope started running for the gutter.

In the darkness, she couldn’t see exactly where the pistol had landed, but she knew it was down there somewhere. Blindly, she felt along the icy cement, ignoring frozen lumps of gum, slushy mud and muck, until she felt the cold barrel of the pistol. She gripped the handle with a shaking hand and swung the weapon toward the men circling each other on the sidewalk.

Conn had taken off his wool muffler and wrapped it around his arm. He was looking for an opening and an instant later he found it. The attacker jabbed the blade toward Conn’s middle. Conn caught his wrist, stepped aside, and let the man’s own momentum carry him forward. A big foot planted in the center of the man’s behind slammed him hard against the wall and he went crashing down on the sidewalk. The guy rolled over and pushed to his feet, but instead of coming back at Conn, he turned and raced like a madman off into the darkness.

Conn started after him, said a dirty word, and turned back, his gaze coming to rest on her. She was standing with her legs braced apart, gripping the pistol with both hands as she had seen the cops do in the movies.

“You don’t need that now. They’re gone.”

She looked around, her grip still tight on the gun, and saw that all three of the men had managed to get away. Conn hadn’t gone after them because he didn’t want to leave her.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d aim that thing somewhere besides my chest.”

“Oh, my God!” She lowered the weapon, pointing it down at the sidewalk with shaking hands. “I’m sorry. I’m pretty new at this. I wasn’t quite sure what…what I should do.”

Conn walked over and gently took the pistol out of her fingers. “Would you really have pulled the trigger?”

“Of course! Those guys were trying to kill you!”

He shook his head. “You never fail to amaze me, Sinclair.”

She realized she was trembling. She wasn’t sure if it was the cold or the adrenaline still pumping through her veins. Conn gathered her into his arms and just held her, sharing some of his warmth. “It’s all right. It’s over.”

She swallowed, nodded. “I guess we’d better call the police.” Instead of letting him go, she clung to him and he kept his arms tightly around her.

“You got your cell phone with you?”

“No, I…I didn’t want anyone to disturb our evening.”

He laughed harshly. “I guess we should have known that wasn’t going to happen.”

“We’ll have to use the phone at the club.”

Conn raked a hand through his hair, which was longer now than when she had first met him. “It doesn’t really matter. Those guys are long gone. Unless you got a really good look at one of them—”

Hope shook her head. “Two of them had their faces completely covered. The third had his cap pulled so low I couldn’t really see him. Two of them were white, though. One had dark skin. He could have been black, but I don’t think so. I was so scared, that’s about all I noticed. How about you?”

“A few more details, maybe. Nothing that’s really going to help.” With his background, he could probably give the police a lot better description than she could. Still, there was no way he could manage a positive I.D.

“Come on. We’ll call the police from your apartment, but it’ll probably be a waste of time. There’s no way they’re going to catch those guys.”

Hope looked up at him, wishing he was wrong, certain the attack was connected in some way to the mugging that had killed poor Buddy, hoping she could somehow convince the police. As they stepped into the light of the street lamp, she noticed the faint trail of blood running from his temple.

“My God, you’re hurt! Why didn’t you say something?”

He reached up and touched the gash on the side of his head, came away with bloody fingers. “It’s no big deal. Head wounds always bleed like the devil.” But he opened his coat, reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his handkerchief, then pressed it against the wound on the side of his head just above his right ear.

“We’ll call the police in the morning. Right now, we need to go home and get that bleeding stopped.” Hope started shaking again. “I shouldn’t have let you come here with me. You could have been killed tonight and it would have been my fault.”

Conn caught her shoulder, his gaze locked with hers. “I’m here because I was afraid something like this would happen. Tomorrow we’re going to that funeral, then we’re flying back to Pleasure Island where you’ll be safe until this is over.”

She was too tired to argue. And clearly Jimmy was right—it was dangerous to stay. Besides, she didn’t really think it would help if she did.

In the morning, she would call the police and report what had happened, then she was going back to the
Conquest
with Conn.

By the time they reached her apartment, the adrenaline rush was beginning to fade and Hope felt completely drained. Yet oddly, both of them remained on edge.

“I need to take a look at that cut,” she said, summoning a last reserve of strength.

Conn reached up, found it still trickling blood. “All right. I’d hate to mess up your nice clean sheets.”

They tossed their coats and scarves onto the back of the sofa. Conn stripped off his navy blue sport coat, red-and-yellow-striped tie, and unbuttoned the top two buttons on his white dress shirt as they walked into the kitchen. There was blood on his collar, she saw, and her stomach tightened.

“Sit here,” she instructed in a take-charge voice, and he sat down heavily in one of the small wooden chairs. His knuckles were scraped, as well, oozing traces of blood, and her heart pinched sharply. His hair was mussed, curling down over his forehead. She combed it back gently with her fingers.

Determined to compose herself, she took a steadying breath and headed for the bathroom to find the peroxide and Band-Aids. They were on a shelf in the medicine chest. She took them out and returned to the kitchen.

Turning on the faucet, she dampened a paper towel and used it to wash the blood from his hands and the cut on his temple. A Q-tip dipped in peroxide helped remove the dried blood and dirt.

As she peeled the plastic tape off the Band-Aid and gently laid the pad over the gash on his head, her hand brushed the nape of his neck. His skin was still chilled, yet she could feel an underlying warmth. His hair felt silky where it curled against her fingers.

He had risked himself for her, come to her aid ignoring the threat to his own safety. Gratitude mixed with a need to touch him, to assure herself that he was all right. Her hands moved lower. Under his white cotton shirt, she knew the smoothness of his skin, the shape and texture of the muscles that moved and tightened across his back. She knew how his body tapered to a narrow waist and flat stomach ridged with sinew.

Reaching around, she began to unfasten the buttons on the front of his shirt. One by one, they popped free, revealing glimpses of springy dark chest hair. She touched him there, circled a flat copper nipple with the tip of her finger and felt his muscles bunch. She could feel the tension in his body, the sinews straining against the desire for her that each of her touches aroused.

His eyes were a turbulent blue and every line of his face betrayed the control it took to endure her exploration. Her own desire built, spearing out through her limbs, tugging low in her belly. Her heartbeat quickened, yet seemed strangely to slow, the soft cadence pulsing between her legs, making her damp and needy.

She pressed her mouth against the side of his neck, her hair swinging forward, sliding along his jaw, and Conn made a low, strangled sound in his throat. His skin tasted salty and male. He smelled of lime aftershave and traces of the sea that was so much a part of him. Another soft kiss, pressed to the nape of his neck, and Conn erupted out of his chair. Hauling her hard against him, he fisted a hand in her hair and his mouth crushed down over hers.

His kiss was fierce and wildly possessive, a hard, claiming kiss brought on by the dangers they had faced. Desire swelled inside her, a hunger unlike any she had known. His tongue swept into her mouth and her own tongue fenced and mated. She wanted to feel him, wanted to touch him. Hope caught the front of his shirt, tearing the last button free, and shoved the fabric off his shoulders.

She wasn’t wearing a bra and the bodice of her black Jersey sheath erotically rubbed her nipples. Conn pushed the narrow straps off her shoulders, shoved the dress down to her waist, and his long, dark fingers curved over a naked breast. He caressed the fullness and pinched the end, sending little jolts of pleasure-pain racing through her.

“Conn…” His name was a plea and a surrender. She wanted this, wanted him. She desired him as she never had another man, and tonight her need was greater than her fear. He could have been injured, even killed. He had risked himself for her and in doing so had somehow claimed her.