First Star I See Tonight

  “I know.” He smiled. “How did you figure it out?”

  She told him about Noah’s license plate.

  “Not much to go on.”

  “And intuition. He hovered around Deidre, and there was something about his attitude toward you that felt more personal than professional.”

  He rested his hand on the bar and gave her one of his brain-piercing looks. “How did you get his computer?”

  He’d brought up the thing she most didn’t want to look at. “Not legally.” She stared into her wineglass. “I’m turning into somebody I don’t respect. One of those people so focused on the end goal that they don’t care how they reach it.”

  “It’s called passion.”

  She had another word for it. Unethical.

  ***

  Coop watched her sip her wine. She wasn’t happy, and he wanted her to be. She should be.

  He took a platter of meats, cheeses, olives, and summer rolls from the refrigerator under the bar and carried it to the closest banquette. She followed him with their wine goblets, steady as can be on those stilettos she detested. She hadn’t believed he’d assaulted anybody. Not for a moment. She’d been impatient when he’d pressed her about it—as if he were wasting her time by bringing it up. No one had ever had such blind faith in him. What the hell was a man supposed to do with a woman like this?

  She slid into the banquette, her skirt riding up on her thighs enough for him to lose his train of thought. Even without tonight’s mascara, her eyelashes were long and thick, and her glossy cinnamon mouth was an invitation. He loved her face best scrubbed clean, but he also loved knowing that she’d bothered fixing herself up just for him.

  “This feels ceremonial,” she said.

  “It is. A celebration.” She’d put her investigator’s license in jeopardy doing whatever it was she’d done, and that bothered him even more than knowing he’d needed someone else to solve his problems.

  “You don’t look happy,” she said.

  “I’m very happy.”

  “Then why are you frowning?”

  “Because I’m trying not to act like the animal I am by picturing what’s under your dress. I’m not proud of myself.”

  She smiled.

  He set down his drink. “Let’s dance.”

  “Really?”

  “Why not?”

  She took his hand and slid out of the banquette. He led her to the floor. It was odd to realize this was the first time he’d been able to dance in his own club strictly for pleasure.

  And pleasure it was. The sweet fit of her body against his own was almost painful, although he wished when he’d programmed the music, he’d avoided this off-the-charts sentimental Ed Sheeran ballad. On the other hand, it suited his mood.

  “This is just weird,” she said, resting the top of her head against the side of his jaw and leaning even closer into him.

  “If only you weren’t such a romantic.”

  She laughed. Why did he keep worrying about leading her on when she had her feet so firmly planted on the ground and her head so far below the clouds?

  They danced in silence, their hands clasped, their bodies swaying, breathing in each other’s air. The Sheeran song ended and Etta James began to sing “At Last.” He drew her back to the banquette.

  She nibbled at the appetizers, taking those dainty bites that always threw him off. He needed to tell her what her trust meant to him. Instead, he asked her to take him through everything she’d done from the time the police had carted him away to their meeting with Deidre.

  “I’ll give you the best first.” She told him about finding the man Mrs. Berkovitz thought was her dead husband.

  “Incredible,” he said as she finished. “And how much did Mrs. B. pay you to do this job for her?”

  “A hundred dollars. I was planning to take her out to dinner, but now I’m hoping I can take them both out.”

  “You have a good heart, Piper Dove.”

  She speared a cheese cube. “And flexible ethics.”

  He rose to fetch the bottle of cabernet from the bar. “Go ahead. Get it all out.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “That bad?”

  “Depends on how you feel about breaking and entering, not to mention burglary. I also lied to your accuser about the money transfer, but I don’t feel bad about that. Then there’s your ring . . .”

  He set the bottle on the table. “Don’t you think you’re being a little hard on yourself?”

  “The end justifies the means? I’d like to believe that, but I can’t.”

  “You’re a high achiever, Pipe. It’s the way you’re made.” The way Duke Dove had made her.

  She gave him a bright, phony smile. “No more depressing talk. Tell me about jail. Did anybody try to make you his bitch?”

  “I was held in a conference room filled with cops who wanted a replay of last year’s Super Bowl. So that would be a no.”

  “Disappointing.”

  He shoved an olive in her mouth.

  The music picked up tempo, and they went back to the dance floor. Before long, she’d kicked off her heels, and he got rid of his suit coat. As the tunes grew more erotic, so did their dancing. Pharrell to Rihanna; Bowie to Beyoncé. Piper on her toes. Pressing that sweet butt hard against him. Rotating, then spinning around to face him, her face flushed, her lids heavy. Rotating again. Butt pressing . . . If she didn’t stop, he’d have a repeat performance of their first time, so he grabbed her by the arms and pressed her against the wall.

  He kissed her. Open mouth. Kissed her and kissed her and kissed her again—mouth, neck, back to her mouth. Long, deep explorations. The two of them making out as if this were as far as they could go. Devouring each other. Clothes sticking to their skin. One song after another.

  Marvin Gaye . . . “Let’s get it on . . .”

  Missy Elliott . . . “Let me work it . . .”

  And still they kissed. A make-out session for the ages.

  Do it all night . . . All night . . .

  The skirt of her dress was in his fists. Shoved to her waist. His belt opening under her palms.

  How does it feel . . . It feels . . .

  Underpants. Zipper. Wool and nylon scattering on the dance floor.

  Up against the wall. In the hall . . . Hot against the wall.

  Freefall . . .

  Her legs around his hips. Butt in his hands. Wet beneath his fingers. Inside her.

  Work it. Work it, work it.

  Inside.

  Like that. And that.

  And that . . .

  ***

  Her knit dress had survived the thrilling abuse, but her underpants hadn’t, and since it felt weird to wear a bra without underpants, she abandoned lingerie altogether and pulled her dress back on over her bare skin. She touched her lips. They felt puffy. She’d be sore tomorrow, and not only her lips.

  Her teeth started to chatter, and her legs weren’t working right. She sank down on the ladies’ room couch.

  The worst thing in the world had happened to her.

  20

  She loved him. She had stupidly, recklessly fallen in love with Cooper Graham. She’d had plenty of warning—the buzz she’d experience whenever he appeared, the delight she took in making him laugh, the rules she’d broken for him. How could she not have correctly identified that intense wash of emotion engulfing her at the most unexpected times?

  She was so dizzy she put her head between her knees, which only made it worse. All the signs had been there, but she’d refused to pay heed to any of them. She’d believed she was immune to falling in love. And maybe she had been. Immune to falling in love with anyone other than Cooper Graham. But watching him being led away in handcuffs had broken open the steel trap that had caged her heart for so long she’d been unaware of its existence. Until now.

  She made herself sit back up. She didn’t do love. She had no resources to handle it. How could she walk out this door and act as if everything were normal? He
was so perceptive, so good at reading her mind. He’d see her feelings on her face. And if he did see . . . He’d be so kind. So fricking kind.

  The minutes ticked by. Any second now he’d barge in to check on her. She wanted to hide in here forever, but she couldn’t do that, and she made herself stand up. There was only one way she could save herself. Only one way to avoid his pity, his kindness.

  She had to get out there and finish this.

  ***

  He emerged from the kitchen with his shirtsleeves rolled up. His lips looked as swollen as hers. Had she bitten him? He’d arranged the silverware haphazardly on their banquette table, along with two neatly plated arugula and apple salads he almost certainly hadn’t made himself.

  “Lobster risotto.” He set down the bowls he’d been carrying. “Direct from the kitchen warming drawer. Extra creamy.” His half-lidded gaze slid over her. “Like you.”

  The erotic jolt that zipped through her proved exactly how vulnerable she was. She sank into the banquette.

  Forcing herself to eat was even more difficult than pretending nothing had changed. “You’re an amazing cook,” she said.

  She knew, and he knew she knew, that he hadn’t prepared any of this, but he played along. “Got my finger cut up a little bit going after the claw meat.”

  “Injuries happen to all great chefs.”

  He grinned. She relentlessly attacked the risotto. It was creamy, just as he’d noted. Cheesy, with succulent chunks of buttery lobster that threatened to stick in her throat. They talked, or mainly he did, going back over what had happened with Parks. She finally told him how she’d gotten Noah’s computer, but even that wasn’t as difficult as what she had to say, and she finally gave up her attempt to eat.

  “No good?” he said.

  “Pregnancy screws up your appetite.”

  He dropped his fork, and his stark horror testified that she was trying too hard to act normally. “I’m kidding.”

  “Not funny!” he practically roared.

  “You know I turn into a wiseass when I’m stressed.”

  “I don’t care how stressed you are. Don’t ever joke about— What are you stressed about?”

  Maybe she could put this off for a few days. A few weeks . . . The possibility was as seductive as the serpent in the Garden of Eden and as destructive. She had to do this quickly. Perfectly. Be as ruthless with herself as Duke used to be when she’d cried over a broken balloon or a scuffed knee. She was her father’s daughter, and she made herself look him square in the eye. “Breaking up with you.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Lay it out logically. Men understand logic. “My job’s over. I finally have a little money in the bank. I even have another place to stay.”

  “You already have a place to stay.”

  “A better place. Amber’s leaving in a couple of days for a tour with her choral group, and she isn’t coming back to the Lyric until December, so I’m going to stay at her place.” She hadn’t talked to Amber. Hadn’t even thought about staying there until this very minute.

  His frown deepened. “Completely unnecessary.”

  “I’ve done what you hired me to do.”

  “Which doesn’t have anything to do with the two of us.”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Sure it does. The job’s over, and so are we.”

  His hand curled into a fist on the table. “What are you talking about? We’re both having a good time. Great sex. You’re the woman I want to be with.”

  “The woman you want to be with right now.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  Another piece of her heart crumbled. “For you, nothing. But there’s a lot wrong with it for me.” She could only nudge at the corners of the truth. “I can’t keep hanging around all your razzle-dazzle. That’s not my world. I’m a homegrown Chicago girl. You’re . . . the stars.” She managed a creaky smile. “‘Star light, star bright,’ and all that.”

  “That doesn’t half make sense.” His hand opened. Pointed. “You’ve told me how you see things, so I know you’re not looking for an engagement ring.”

  The way he said it was a knife through her heart. She wasn’t a romantic. She wasn’t. She didn’t want rings and bridal veils. That wasn’t her. But his casual dismissal of any kind of future made her throat close up.

  She had to be tough. That’s who she was, and that’s what he expected. She pulled in a thread of air. “A woman’s never dumped you, has she?”

  “We’re not talking about dumping.”

  “In other words, no. You’re the one who does the dumping. You don’t know how to deal with any other scenario. Don’t you see? This isn’t about me or about our relationship. It’s about your need to win.” It was the truth and maybe he knew it, too, because he grew hostile.

  “I don’t need you psychoanalyzing me.”

  “It’s for your own good, and, yes, I really am breaking up with you.”

  His lips thinned. “You’re a quitter, Piper Dove. I never thought I’d say that about you, but you’re running away from the two of us like a scared teenager.”

  So true. With her emotional survival at stake, what else could she do? “I’m not running away. I’m being pragmatic. We’re two different worlds, Coop. It’s time I go back to mine and you go on with yours.”

  “Is that what you really want?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  He came to his feet and threw down his napkin, his expression as cold as she’d ever seen it. “The hell with you then.”

  ***

  Coop stalked upstairs to his office. Where did she get off? Tonight was supposed to have been a celebration. He’d planned to surprise her by asking her to move in with him, an invitation he’d never offered any other woman. And what had she done? She’d spoiled the whole thing.

  Leave it to Piper Dove to take something straightforward and turn it into a mess. They had fun together. They saw life the same way. What was so hard to understand about that? But instead of appreciating what they had, she had to screw it up.

  She was right about one thing, though. He didn’t like to lose. Especially when there was no need for it. He made up his mind. He’d ignore her for a couple of days, give her some time to miss what they had. Get tough with her. Because toughness was something Piper Dove understood.

  ***

  Her final four nights working at the club were hell, but she’d promised Tony she’d stay till the end of the week, and she couldn’t leave him in the lurch. The story of Coop and his false accuser had played big in the media, and the club was packed every night. Whenever she turned around, there was Coop.

  Saturday finally came. Her last night. With all the publicity, any lingering debate about leaving Coop alone on the floor was over. Jonah had organized the bouncers so one of them was always at his side. Until tonight, Piper had been able to beg off “Coop duty” because, as the only female bouncer, she already had too much territory to cover. But on Saturday Ernie called in sick, and she had to take her turn.

  Coop had made it easy for her to keep her distance by acting as if she didn’t exist. He was proving what she already knew about him—how much he hated to lose. She missed their closeness so much that she ached—those intimate glances they’d exchanged, their shared amusement over some inanity only they found hilarious. All of it gone.

  It was also her last night sleeping above the club. Amber was happy to have an apartment-sitter, and tomorrow Piper was moving in. By tomorrow this chapter in her life would be over. The worst chapter.

  The best chapter.

  As she watched one of the hair-swishers pressing in on him close enough to leave another makeup smear on his shirt, Jonah tapped her on the shoulder. “Time for you to take over with Coop.” He glanced toward their employer. “What’s with you two, anyway? I haven’t seen you guys talk all week.”

  She was leaving, and Coop was staying. She had to do the right thing. “Coop dumped me. In the nicest possible way, of course. He?
??s the perfect gentleman.”

  “No shit? I figured you guys were gonna last a little longer.”

  “S’okay. It had to happen. Better sooner than later.”

  Jonah gave her a clumsy pat on the back. Even though he was a cretin, she’d developed a reluctant fondness for him.

  Within a few minutes of Jonah’s departure, the crowd again started pressing in on Coop, and she had her work cut out for her. “Let the man have some room.”

  Most people didn’t give her trouble, and the few who did were drunk and easy to handle. It was a good thing nobody was getting in her face, because she needed a target for every raw, painful emotion swirling inside her. Only a few more hours . . .

  A bro in a fedora and V-neck sweater wedged in on Coop. She grew increasingly furious as she listened to the moron relive every snap Coop had fumbled and every ball he’d thrown late. Coop was used to this kind of bull, and he was handling it fine. But she wasn’t. As the bro started in on Coop’s lousy leadership skills, all the horrible feelings churning inside her found their target, and her temper exploded. She shoved between a couple of his pals, reared up on her stilettos, and grabbed the guy’s shirtfront. “Back off, asshole, or I will rip your fucking head off. Do you understand me?”

  Coop’s eyebrows shot up. The guy blinked, then jutted out his jaw with false bravado. “Yeah? Who are you?”

  “She’s my bodyguard,” Coop said evenly. “Best not to mess with her.”

  The guy began edging away. “Who needs this shithole club?”

  Bryan quickly separated the jerk from the crowd. Coop looked down at her with displeasure. “Real smooth.”

  “He irritated me.”

  “Cut it out.”

  She couldn’t handle this any longer, and she walked away. One more hour, and her job would be over.

  She checked the ladies’ room and VIP. All well. When she finally came back downstairs, she ran into a group of men surrounding Coop near the mezzanine stairs. An especially loud, gel-haired jock type had positioned himself as close as he could and was gesturing toward him with his beer. “You and me, Coop. We know what it’s like. I had a bitch try to nail me once. Just like what happened to you.”