“And here I’d thought she’d be just your type,” Fox drawled.
“Yeah? What type’s that?”
“Breathing.” It was a low blow. They both knew the reason behind Raphael’s somewhat frenetic dating patterns this past month. “It wasn’t your fault,” Fox said a silent moment later.
Raphael’s tone turned caustic. “You taunt a killer, you can’t expect him to strike back, is that it?”
“You didn’t taunt him. We were closing in on him. Damn it, Rafe, you’re smarter than this. What are you going to do, spend the rest of your life never going out with a lady more than once because some scumbag might decide to make her pay for her association with you?”
That was pretty much exactly what he had decided. There was no doubt in Raphael’s heart that Anna Lombardo’s blood was on his hands. Gregg Miller had targeted her, had chosen her, had strangled that calm, cool light right out of her eyes because of him. To warn him off. But Raphael was damned tired of talking about Anna tonight.
“What did Allegra have to say?” he asked.
Fox sighed, but he changed the subject. “Not a word worth repeating. She saw nothing, heard nothing, smelled nothing. She says she was in the bathroom and when she came back, Phil was dead.”
It was pretty much what Kate had said. Raphael got up from the sofa. His stomach was rumbling. He headed for her kitchen.
“How about why McGaffney opted to dine at home tonight?” he asked finally. “Did Allegra have any insight on that?”
“Sure,” Fox said. “Something about her knickers.”
“That’s a crock.”
“It is. He wanted to ply her for information about what Charlie Eagan’s boys have been up to. We know that. But we’ll never get her to say so.”
Raphael flicked on the kitchen light. He opened Kate’s refrigerator, then stared.
“You still there?” came Fox’s voice.
“She’s got her leftovers labeled.”
He saw a plastic container that said Beef. Raphael grabbed it and pried the lid off. Red and rare. He found bread, then horseradish sauce in a small glass jar that said Horseradish Sauce. He made himself a sandwich. As an afterthought, he grabbed a carton of milk from the refrigerator, as well. He opened a cupboard door. Where the hell were her glasses? He found metal utensils that looked like they could have been used in the Inquisition, but nothing resembling an object that one might drink out of. Disgusted with Kate’s orderliness, he swigged from the carton.
“Did Allegra mention a dog?” he asked, swallowing.
“A what?”
“A dog.”
“No,” Fox said slowly, “I can’t say that she did. Why?”
“There was one there tonight. Seems it wandered in through the back door while the lady was cooking. It stole a steak off one of her plates and beat it.”
“A dog,” Fox repeated.
“Right.”
“You’re thinking that it was some kind of a setup to divert the caterer’s attention?”
“Well, it’s weird, what with the timing and all.”
“We’ve come across some far-fetched things over the years, but I think that’s reaching.”
Fox was probably right. “Damn, this is good.” Raphael swallowed another bite of the sandwich and marveled. Then his voice darkened. “Let’s wrap this thing up, pal. I don’t know how many days of Betty Crocker I can stand.”
“I’ll make the rounds of Eagan’s men in the morning.”
“I’ll take McGaffney’s boys and see what I can find out there.”
“Not to bring up a sore subject, but what about the caterer?”
Raphael licked the last crumb of sandwich from his finger. “She’s coming with me.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Damned right it is.”
Suddenly, the last of the caffeine rush from her coffee left him and Raphael was bone-tired. “I’ll check in with you at midday,” he said and disconnected.
He hit the light switch in the kitchen and flopped down on the sofa again. He stuck the whisper-thin pillow beneath his backside to provide some minimal padding against the torture spring. He covered his eyes with his forearm to shut out the pulsing yellow light, then, instantly, he slept.
The next thing he heard was her screeching.
Kate had not ever known that a man could snore in such a fashion. Oh, she’d heard it spoken of, joked about. But the constant, deep sound that came from her living room all night was beyond the realm of her wildest imagination.
Sometime just before dawn she got up to stuff an extra blanket against the crack beneath her bedroom door to buffer the sound. It helped a little, but she was still agonizingly aware that he was out there. He was invading her life, her world, her plans. Pervading everything that was precious to her, making her stay home from work. Or at least he was trying to. It remained to be seen who would be the victor in that little battle.
“Damn you, Phillip McGaffney,” she muttered just as the alarm went off.
Kate rolled over and slapped her palm down on top of it. Then she was instantly contrite. Phillip McGaffney was dead. What kind of problems did she have compared to that?
Then a particularly resonant rumbling came from under the blanket beneath her door. At least McGaffney had not been forced to spend the night with Raphael Montiel chainsawing away on his living room sofa, Kate thought sourly. It was just possible the man had gotten the better end of the deal.
At least Montiel had left her alone. He hadn’t—
Hadn’t what? A thin laugh escaped Kate’s throat. He hadn’t been suddenly overwhelmed with lust for the single woman just beyond the locked and blanket-bulkheaded door? Not likely, Kate thought. He’d spent most of their interview the night before watching her with those green eyes squinting ever so slightly. Like she was a bug or a microbe on a slide, something he couldn’t quite identify. He had not once glanced at her with anything resembling a gleam in those eyes.
“It doesn’t matter,” she muttered, getting to her feet, swaying slightly from fatigue.
Kate knew her assets, and she also knew that a man like Montiel would never appreciate any of them. She’d tangled with his type before—a man with that same lazy, confident sense of power—and she had been left almost literally at the altar by him in favor of a flighty, vapid, though admittedly physically perfect exotic dancer. She swiped a hand over her head to smooth her wild curls. Then she went grimly to the closed bedroom door.
The problem was that she knew relatively little about men, she realized. She’d been engaged for those six short months and had come out of that experience even more perplexed by the species than she had been before. She did know, however, that men didn’t have to be particularly swept away by attraction to…well, to…want it. And mornings—well, men often felt particularly amorous in the morning, and it was not so much desire that got them that way but testosterone.
Kate eased back from the bedroom door. Better to be safe than sorry, she decided.
She retreated to her closet, then she went to her dresser, gathering clothing. She was not going to bounce back and forth between the bedroom and the bath with a towel wrapped around her. It was best to set a precedent, she thought, right here, right now. Who knew how much longer this situation would be necessary?
After