Triple Time Page 8

  “You okay?” He sat beside her.

  “Couldn’t be better.” She picked up the packets he’d deposited on the end table and inspected them. Only two left. Damn. “Except for one thing.”

  He frowned. “What’s that?”

  She pushed him down on the bed and straddled him. Sure, it had been fun—okay, mind-blowing—letting him take over. But now it was her turn to be in charge, and she was going to drive him as crazy as he’d driven her. And enjoy every minute of it.

  She put the packets within easy reach on the bed and crawled down the length of him until her mouth was poised at the tip of his already stiffening cock. “We’re going to need more condoms.”

  8

  THE SMELL OF fresh-brewed coffee woke Gabe the next morning. He rolled over and reached for Devin, momentarily disappointed to find her gone until he heard the sound of running water coming from the bathroom.

  Shower sex. Perfect way to start the day.

  Especially if it was anything like the fold-out-couch sex they’d had last night. And the kitchen-counter sex. And the against-the-wall sex.

  And still it wasn’t enough.

  Gabe jumped out of bed, sprinted to the bathroom and jiggled the door handle.

  Locked.

  “Hey, babe, let me in. I can scrub your back.” He ran a hand across his jaw. Christ, he needed a shave. Then again, maybe Devin liked the rugged, bad-boy look. “Or your front, if you prefer.”

  He pressed his ear to the door.

  Nothing.

  He shrugged, figuring she must not be able to hear him over the running water, and went back to the living/bedroom. He found his jeans on the floor and snatched them up, feeling suddenly self-conscious strolling around her apartment in the buff. As he pulled them on, the shower shut off and he heard the scrape of the curtain being drawn back.

  He pictured her stepping out of the tub, gloriously nude, water dripping off her firm, full breasts. Shower sex might be out, but après-shower sex could be just as good.

  Gabe sat on the bed, willing his hard-on to behave until Devin emerged from the bathroom. To distract himself, he studied her apartment in the light of day. She had a hell of a lot of artwork. Reproductions, for sure, on her budget. But nice ones. Everything from a framed Degas print he recognized because his sister Noelle, a ballet dancer, had the same one hanging over her mantle to a miniature of one of Louise Bourgeois’s spider sculptures.

  He wandered over to a stack of what looked like canvases facing one wall. He flipped the first one around and took a step back.

  Damn.

  This was no reproduction. And he was no art critic, but it was stunning. Compelling.

  Erotic.

  The paint practically leaped off the canvas, drawing the viewer’s eye to the image of a man and woman in what might have been a traditional picnic scene except for one thing. They were both naked. The woman reclined on a blanket in the foreground, her head back, eyes closed. Her breasts were thrust out proudly and one knee was bent, the artist only hinting at the shadowy area between her thighs. The man sat behind her, one hand on her raised leg, his lips at her nape. All around them lay the remnants of their feast—squashed sandwiches, spilled wine glasses, an overturned bowl of strawberries—leaving no doubt as to what they’d been up to.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Gabe turned to face Devin, still beautiful in just a towel tied over her breasts, her wet hair streaming down her back, her hands on her hips and steam practically coming out of her ears. And not from the shower. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Obviously. Do you always snoop through your lovers’ personal belongings the minute their backs are turned? What do you want to search next? My medicine cabinet? Maybe scroll through the messages on my cell phone?”

  Personal? Did that mean...

  “Did you paint this? It’s amazing.” He pointed to the rest of the canvasses. “What about these?”

  The hands on her hips balled into fists. “I think it’s time for you to go.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. But you have to know you’re good. You should be exhibiting this stuff in a gallery, not hiding it in your apartment.” He rubbed a hand through his hair. “You know, my sister Ivy has a friend who works at a gallery in Chelsea. Maybe she could...”

  “No. No friend. No gallery.” She hitched up her towel, which had started to slip, depriving him of a glimpse of the breasts he’d fantasized about when she was in the shower. The ones he’d nipped, licked and sucked last night until she’d screamed his name and come apart in his arms.

  He shook his head, willing himself to focus on her artwork, and not what was under the scrap of terry cloth she was clinging to like a life preserver. “But...”

  “And no buts.” She bent to pick up his T-shirt and held it out to him. “You need to get dressed and get out of here. I’m due at work in an hour.”

  “On a Sunday?”

  “We’re open seven days a week at Ink the Heights.” She tossed the shirt at him.

  He caught it against his chest. “I don’t understand why you waste your time with tattoos when you could be a serious artist.”

  Shit.

  If he hadn’t known the minute the words left his mouth that they were a mistake, the pissed off look on her face sure as hell told him so. She was definitely steaming now, her expression saying, “Die, moron.”

  “I don’t give a fuck whether you understand or not. It’s my life. My choices. And as far as I’m concerned, I am a serious artist, and I’m not wasting a damn thing.” She picked up a sneaker and threw it at him, smirking when he struggled to catch it with the T-shirt still in his hands. “Now like I said, get dressed and get going.”

  “Fine. I’ll go.” He pulled the shirt on over his head. If there was one thing he’d learned in the military-strategy class he’d taken as part of his Navy JAG training it was that pushing full speed ahead wasn’t always the best option. Sometimes you needed to retreat and regroup before moving forward. “But this isn’t the end of our discussion.”

  He didn’t give her a chance to disagree, striding over to her and silencing her with a swift, searing kiss. “I’ll call you when I have news about Victor. And I’ll be waiting to hear what our next adventure’s going to be.”

  She crossed her arms in front of her chest, whether to better hold up the towel or because she was still royally ticked at him he wasn’t sure. “Haven’t we had enough adventures already? You seemed pretty comfortable with all those strangers on the pub crawl. I think you’re ready for the campaign trail.”

  “No way.” He dropped the shoe and put his hands on her shoulders, loving the way her skin felt, soft and damp from the shower. “The only reason I was able to put three words together was because you were there with me every step of the way. You can’t abandon me now.”

  “I’m not abandoning you. More like pushing you out of the nest.” Her eyes softened, some of their anger gone. “You’re ready to fly, Gabe. You just needed someone to show you how.”

  “What if I can’t fly without you?” He massaged her shoulders. “What if I don’t want to?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

  “I never do.”

  “You’re an attorney. Isn’t stretching the truth part of your job description?”

  “I’m an officer of the court, sworn to uphold truth and justice.”

  A half smile played around the corners of her lips. “So you really are Dudley Do-Right?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” He gave her another quick kiss, softer this time. Then he picked up the sneaker and scanned the room for its mate, retrieving it from under the still unfolded couch. “Now, if I’m not mistaken, you’ve got bodies to tattoo. And I’ve got cases to close.” And her brother to find.

  “On a Sunday?” she asked, her tone mocking his earlier comment.

  “I’d rather spend it in bed with you, but since that’s not an option...”
He sat, putting on the sneakers. “Until next time.”

  She moved to a closet in the corner, opened it and started rummaging around, pulling out pieces and tossing them on the bed. Denim skirt. Black tank top with the Ink the Heights logo on it. A couple of scraps of lace that had him adjusting his jeans. “Who says there’s going to be a next time?”

  “I do.” Gabe stood. “And so do you.”

  She turned to face him, a high-heeled shoe in one hand. “How do you figure that?”

  “Your nipples. They’re practically poking holes through that poor towel.”

  He just managed to duck the shoe and close the door on his way out.

  * * *

  “HEARD YOU WERE in over the weekend.” Jack strolled into Gabe’s office Monday morning as if he owned the place—as usual—and threw himself into one of the guest chairs. Christ, the guy was a drama queen. “Hoping a little brown-nosing will get you that endorsement?”

  Gabe closed the file he’d been reading. “I’m busy, Jack. So unless you have some reason for this visit other than to harass me about the election...”

  “Actually, I have two.” He dropped a thick folder onto Gabe’s desk.

  “What’s this?”

  “A copy of my nomination papers. I’m running against you.” With a grin, Jack leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on Gabe’s desk. “Filed as soon as the clerk’s office opened. Thought I’d let you know before the media got wind of it.”

  Shit. Gabe’s stomach plummeted fifty stories. The guy might be a halfway decent lawyer, but the last thing Manhattan needed was an opportunistic bastard like Jack as district attorney. He’d turn the whole office into a nepotistic nightmare.

  “How considerate.” Gabe picked up the folder and tossed it into the garbage. “Now get your goddamn feet off my desk and get the hell out of my office.”

  “Don’t you want to know the other reason I’m here?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Jack crossed an ankle over one knee and made a show of brushing off his oxford. “Holcomb wants to meet me at noon. You know what that means. You can kiss your precious endorsement goodbye.”

  “Could be.” Gabe tried his hardest to sound unconcerned. He wouldn’t put it past Holcomb to conveniently forget their San Gennaro deal and throw his weight behind Jack. “Or could be any one of a million things he wants to discuss with you. What makes you think it has anything to do with the endorsement?”

  “A little birdie told me.”

  “The same little birdie who told you I was working yesterday?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Jack smoothed back his already slick hair. “A good investigator never reveals his sources.”

  “He took you off the Park Avenue homicide.” Gabe twirled a pen between his fingers. “That doesn’t sound like a ringing testimonial.”

  “Please. That case is a dead dog loser. Not what the future district attorney needs on his track record.” Jack stood and crossed to the door, stopping and turning just inside the frame with a self-satisfied smirk. “Face it, pal. Holcomb’s throwing you to the wolves.”

  Jack made his escape before Gabe could strike back. Not that he had much to say. Bottom line: Jack was right. The Park Avenue case was shit. Gabe had barely gotten an indictment from the grand jury. He’d never get a conviction without more than a shaky eyewitness.

  Gabe swore under his breath, threw the pen down and reached for the phone to call the inspector he’d sent to canvass the neighborhood. Again. He had his hand on the receiver when it rang.

  “Gabe Nelson.”

  “Attorney Nelson, this is Genevieve Brewer at Child Protective Services. You’re looking for information on Victor Padilla?”

  Finally. Maybe his day was turning around.

  “That’s right.”

  “I pulled his file. The good news is he was adopted in 2001, but I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you. His adoption records are sealed.”

  Or not.

  “I thought that might be the case.” He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Can you give me his last known address before the adoption?”

  She rattled off an address in Brooklyn. “I’m sorry. I wish I could give you more information. But without a court order, there’s really nothing I can do.”

  “I understand.” He slumped in his seat. “No apology necessary. Thanks for getting back to me.”

  He hung up the phone and swore again.

  Another dead end. Devin had hit roadblock after roadblock searching for Victor, and he had to tell her she’d hit one more.

  Unless...

  Gabe picked up the phone and dialed his inspector. A former cop, Dallas Murphy had been Gabe’s righthand man from his first day as an assistant district attorney—following leads, interviewing witnesses. If anyone could find Victor, he could.

  Murphy answered on the second ring. “Hey, boss. Nothing yet here. But you know how we thought the surveillance camera in the lobby was on the fritz?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Turns out it was working just fine. And the security company’s got the tapes from the day of the murder.”

  Halle-freaking-lujah.

  “Great. Work up a warrant. I’ll get it in front of a judge ASAP.”

  “You got it. Anything else?”

  “Yeah.” Gabe rose, crossed to the door and closed it. “But this is off the books, on your own time. Keep track of your hours and bill me.”

  “Now you’ve got my attention.”

  “Good. Got a pen and paper?”

  “Ready, boss. Shoot.”

  Gabe was brimming with renewed determination when he ended the call a few minutes later. He might not have any answers for Devin beyond the fact that her brother had been adopted. But he wasn’t done trying. Not by a long shot.

  And he wasn’t done trying with her, either.

  He pulled his smartphone out of his pocket. What was the name of that bar she worked in? He’d been there once with Holly but that had been ages ago. All he remembered was that it started with an N and was around the corner from their apartment building.

  A few taps and he had the information he needed. He’d given her a couple of days to regroup. Now it was time for him to make the next move.

  It was past eight when Gabe pushed open the door to Naboombu. He’d called ahead to make sure Devin was working, hanging up the phone like a ten-year-old when she answered. Not because he was afraid to talk to her but because he wanted to surprise her, catch her off guard and throw her off her game.

  Another tactic he’d learned from the JAG corps. With Devin, he wasn’t above taking any advantage he could get. God knows, he needed every last one.

  The bar was pretty crowded for a weeknight. Not hopping by any means, but a fair number of people occupied the oak stools, most watching the Yankee game playing on the flat-screen TV.

  Gabe slid onto a vacant stool and looked for Devin. He spotted her at the other end of the bar with five shot glasses lined up in front of her and a stack of shakers, one inside the other, in her hand.

  His eyes—and the eyes of every other guy in the place, even the ones who’d been focused on the ball game—zeroed in on her as she made an impressive display of tipping the stack of shakers and filling the glasses simultaneously. When she finished, she handed out the shots, flipped her long curtain of dark hair over her shoulder and bowed.

  Applause broke out at the end of the bar.

  “Encore.”

  “Yeah, do it again.”

  “Can you dance on the bar like the chicks in that Ugly Coyote movie?” a man with a horseshoe mustache asked.

  Devin tossed the shakers into the sink behind her and grabbed a rag. “It’s Coyote Ugly, genius. And I’m not Tyra freaking Banks.”

  “You can say that again.” Mustache man knocked back his shot.

  She wiped down the surface of the bar, slung the towel over her shoulder and headed toward Gabe’s end of the bar. When her eyes caught his, they na
rrowed and her steps slowed.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He gave a halfhearted shrug. “Same as everyone else. Watching the game. Having a drink, if the bartender ever serves me.”

  “But why here?” She stopped in front of him, hands on her hips. “There’s plenty of bars in Tribeca.”

  “Would you believe me if I said I like the ambiance?” A smile crept across his face.

  She stared him down. “Hell, no.”

  His smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. “How about if I said I had some news about Victor?”

  The air between them seemed to thicken. Gabe sucked in a breath and waited for her answer. Had he made a mistake bringing up her brother? He didn’t have much information for her. And he didn’t want to get her hopes up by telling her about Murphy. But maybe just knowing Victor had been adopted instead of languishing in foster care would relieve some of her concern.

  After a long moment, she plunked an empty shot glass upside down on the bar in front of him.

  “Then I’d say you can have whatever you want.” She leaned an elbow against the bar and tucked her hair behind her ear. The smell of her almond shampoo wafted toward him. “On the house.”

  9

  DEVIN’S HAND SHOOK as she poured Gabe the Scotch and soda he’d ordered.

  “So.” She slid the glass across the bar to him. “You’ve found Victor?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Her spirits did a nose dive. Her disappointment must have shown on her face because Gabe reached around the glass to take her hand.

  “But it’s a step in the right direction.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Your brother was adopted.”

  “Adopted?” She sagged against the bar. “When? By who?”

  “The when I can answer. 2001.” He sipped his Scotch. “But the who...”

  She pulled back her hand. “Let me guess. The records are sealed.”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not what you wanted to hear.”