“No, no, it’s good. I like it there. Let me get some more light going for a better look. It might have found its home.” Nikki struck a wooden match and the flare-up anointed her face with gold. She reached down into the curved glass of the hurricane lamp on the bookcase and touched the flame to the wick.
“Which one are you?” said Rook. When she looked up, he gestured to the print. “The girls, lighting the lanterns. I’m watching you do the same thing and wondering if you see yourself as one of them.”
She moved to the coffee table and set out a pair of votives. As she lit them, she said, “Neither, I just like the way it feels. What it captures. The light, the festiveness, their innocence.” She sat on the sofa. “I still can’t believe you got it for me. It was very thoughtful.”
Rook came around the other end of the coffee table and joined her on the couch, but putting himself at the far end with his back against the armrest. Allowing some space between them. “Have you seen the original?”
“No, it’s in London.”
“Yes, at the Tate,” he said.
“Then you’ve actually seen it, show off.”
“Mick and Bono and I went. In Elton John’s Bentley.”
“You know, I almost believe you.”
“Tony Blair was so pissed we invited Prince Harry instead of him.”
“Almost,” she chuckled and glanced over at the print. “I used to love to see Sargent’s paintings at the Fine Arts in Boston when I was going to Northeastern. He did some murals there, too.”
“Were you an art student?” Before she could answer, he raised his glass. “Hey, look at us. Nikki and Jamie, doin’ the social.”
She clinked his glass and took a sip. The air was so warm, the beer was already hitting room temp. “I was an English major, but I really wanted to transfer to Theater.”
“You’re going to have to help me with this. How did you go from that to becoming a police detective?”
“Not such a huge leap,” said Nikki. “Tell me what I do isn’t part acting, part storytelling.”
“True. But that’s the what. I’m curious about the why.”
The murder.
The end of innocence.
The life changer.
She thought it over and said, “It’s personal. Maybe when we know each other better.”
“Personal. Is that code for ‘because of a guy’?”
“Rook, we’ve been riding together for how many weeks? Knowing what you know about me, do you think I would make a choice like that for a guy?”
“The jury will disregard my question.”
“No, this is good, I want to know,” she said, and scooted closer to him. “Would you change what you do for a woman?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“You have to, I’m interrogating your ass. Would you change what you do for a woman?”
“In a vacuum…I can’t see it.”
“All right, then.”
“But,” he said and paused to form his thought, “for the right woman?…I’d like to think I’d do just about anything.” He seemed satisfied with what he’d said, even affirmed it to her with a nod, and when he did, he raised his eyebrows, and at that moment, Jamie Rook didn’t look like a globetrotter on the cover of a glossy magazine at all but like a kid in a Norman Rockwell, truthful and absent of guile.
“I think we need better alcohol,” she said.
“There’s a blackout, I could loot a liquor store. Do you have a stocking I can borrow to pull over my face?”
The exact contents of her liquor cupboard in the kitchen were a quarter bottle of cooking sherry, a bottle of peach Bellini wine cocktail that had no freshness date but years ago had separated and taken on the look and hue of nuclear fissionable material…Aha! And a half bottle of tequila.
Rook held the light and Nikki rose up from the crisper drawer of the refrigerator brandishing a sad little lime as if she’d snagged a Barry Bonds ball complete with hologram. “Too bad I don’t have any triple sec or Cointreau, we could have margaritas.”
“Please,” he said. “You’re in my area now.” They returned to the couch and he set up shop on the coffee table with a paring knife, a salt shaker, the lime, and the tequila. “Today, class, we’re making what we call hand margaritas. Observe.” He sliced a lime wedge, poured a shot of tequila, then licked the web of his hand at the thumb and forefinger and sprinkled salt on it. He licked the salt, tossed back the shot, then bit the lime. “Whoa-yeah. That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” he said. “I learned how to do this from Desmond Tutu,” he added and she laughed. “Now you.”
In one fluid move Nikki picked up the knife, sliced a wedge, salted her hand, and brought it all home. She saw his expression and said, “Where the hell you think I’ve been all these years?”
Rook smiled at her and prepared another, and as she watched him, she felt herself relaxing her sore shoulders and, inch by inch, coming untethered from the state of alertness she had unwittingly adopted as a lifestyle. But when he was ready, Rook didn’t down this shot. Instead, he held out his hand to her. She looked down at the salt on his skin and the lime between his thumb and finger. Nikki didn’t look up at him because she was afraid if she did she would change her mind instead of taking the leap. She bent toward his hand and darted her tongue out, quickly at first, but then, choosing to slow the moment down, she lingered there licking the salt off his skin. He offered her the shot and she fired it back and then, cradling his wrist in her fingers, she guided the lime wedge he was holding to her lips. The burst of lime juice cleansed her palate, and as she swallowed, the warmth from the tequila spread from her stomach to her limbs, filling her with a luxurious buoyancy. She closed her eyes and ran her tongue on her lips again, tasting the citrus and salt. Nikki wasn’t at all drunk, it was something else. She was letting go. The simple things people take for granted. For the first time she could remember in a long time, she was flat-out relaxed.
That’s when she realized she was still holding Rook’s wrist. He didn’t seem to mind.
They didn’t speak. Nikki licked her own hand and salted it. Held a wedge. Poured a shot. And then she offered her hand to him. Unlike her, he didn’t avert his gaze. He brought her hand up to him and put his lips on it and tasted the salt and then the saltiness of her skin around it as they stared at each other. Then he drank the shot and bit the lime she gave to him. They held eye contact like that, neither one moving, the extended-play version of their perfume ad moment on Matthew Starr’s balcony. Only this time Nikki didn’t break off.
Tentatively, slowly, each drew an inch closer, each still silent, each still holding the other’s steady gaze. Whatever worry or uncertainty or conflict she’d felt before, she pushed it aside as too much thinking. At that moment, Nikki Heat didn’t want to think. She wanted to be. She reached out and gently touched his jaw where she had struck him earlier. She rose up on one knee and leaned forward to him and, rising above him, lightly kissed his cheek. Nikki hovered there, studying the play of shadows and candlelight on his face. The soft ends of her hair dangled down and brushed him. He reached out, gently smoothing one side back, lightly stroking her temple as he did. Leaning there above him, Nikki could feel the warmth from his chest coming up to meet hers and she inhaled the mild scent of his cologne. The flickering of the candles gave the room a feeling of motion, the way it looked to Nikki when the plane she was in flew through a cloud. She pressed herself down to him and he came to meet her, the two of them not so much moving as drifting weightless toward each other, attracted by some irresistible force in nature that had no name, color, or taste, only heat.
And then what began so gently took on its own life. They flew to each other, locking open mouths together, crossing some line that dared them, and they took it. They tasted deeply and touched each other with a frenzy of eagerness fired by wonder and craving, the two of them released at last to test the edge of their passion.
A votive candle on the coffee table began to sputter an
d pop. Nikki pulled away from Rook, tearing herself away from him, and sat up. Chest heaving, soaked with perspiration, both his and her own, she watched the candle’s glowing ember fade out, and when it had been consumed by the darkness, she stood. She held out her hand to Rook and he took it, rising up to stand with her.
One candle had sparked brightly and died but one was still burning. Nikki picked that one up and used it to light the way for them to her bedroom.
TEN
Nikki led him wordlessly into her bedroom and set the candle on her dresser, in front of the trifold mirror, which multiplied its light. She turned to find Rook there, close to her, magnetic. She folded her arms around his neck and drew his mouth to hers; he wrapped his long arms around her waist and tugged her body to him. Their kisses were deep and urgent, familiar all at once, her tongue finding the depth and sweetness of his open mouth while he explored hers. One of his hands began to reach for her blouse but hesitated. She clutched it and placed it on her breast. The heat of the room was tropical, and as he touched her, Nikki felt his fingers ride the slick of perspiration above the dampness of her bra. She lowered her hand and found him and he moaned softly. Nikki began to sway, then he did, too, both doing a slow dance in some sort of delicious vertigo.
Rook walked her backward toward her bed. When her calves met the edge of it, she let herself do a slow fall back, pulling him with her. As they both floated down, Heat pulled him closer and twisted, surprising Rook by landing on top of him. He looked up at her from the mattress and said, “You’re good.”
“You have no idea,” she said. They dove into each other again, and her tongue picked up the faint acid tang of lime and then salt. Her mouth left his to kiss his face and then his ear. She felt the muscles of his abdomen flex hard against her as he curled his head upward, nibbling the soft flesh where her neck met her collarbone. Nikki stirred and began to unbutton his shirt. Rook was making a project out of her blouse button so she rose up, straddled him on both knees and ripped the blouse open, hearing one of her buttons skitter against the hardwood floor near the baseboard. With one hand, Rook unhooked the front clasp of her bra. Nikki shook her arms out of it and made a frenzied dive onto him. Their wet skin made a slap as her chest landed on his. She reached down and unhooked his belt. Then undid his zipper. Nikki kissed him again and whispered, “I keep protection in the nightstand.”
“You won’t need a gun,” he said. “I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
“You’d better not.” And she pounced on him, her heart pounding high in her chest with excitement and tension. A wave crashed over Nikki and washed away all the conflicted feelings and misgivings she had been wrestling with, and she was simply, mightily, powerfully swept up. In that instant, Nikki became free. Free of responsibility. Free of control. Free of herself. Swirling, she clung to Rook, needing to feel every part of him she could touch. They held on with a fury, his passion matching hers as they explored each other, moving, biting, hungry, reaching and reaching to satisfy what they ached for.
Nikki couldn’t believe it was morning already. How could the sun be so bright when her watch alarm hadn’t gone off yet? Or did she sleep through it? She squinted her eyes open enough to recognize she was seeing the Nightsun beam from a police helicopter against her window shears. She listened. No sirens, no bullhorns, no heavy Russian footsteps on her fire escape, and soon, the spotlight was extinguished and the drone of the chopper grew silent as it flew on. She smiled. Captain Montrose may have kept his word and pulled the patrol car, but he didn’t say anything about air surveillance.
She rolled her head to her alarm clock, but it was flashing 1:03 and that couldn’t be right. Her watch said 5:21, so Nikki calculated that the difference was how long the blackout had lasted.
Rook drew a long, slow breath, and Nikki felt his chest expand against her back, followed by the chill of his exhale against the dampness of her neck. Damn, she thought, he’s actually spooning me. With the windows closed, the bedroom was stifling, and there was a film of sweat fusing their naked bodies. She considered moving to get some air between them. Instead, Nikki settled herself back against his chest and thighs and liked the fit.
Jameson Rook.
Now, how did this happen?
Since the day she got stuck with him for this research ride-along business, he’d been a daily annoyance to her. And now here she was in bed with him after a night of sex. And great sex at that.
If she had to interrogate herself, Detective Heat would end up signing a sworn statement that there was a spark of attraction from their first meeting. He, of course, had no qualms about voicing that every chance he had, a trait that may have had something to do with his high annoyance factor. May have? But his certainty was no match for a greater force, her denial. Yeah, there was always something there, and now, in hindsight, she realized that the more she’d felt it, the more she’d denied it.
Nikki wondered what other denials she had been dealing with.
None. Absolutely none.
Bull.
Why else did Matthew Starr’s mistress strike such an uncomfortable chord with her, talking about how staying in a going-nowhere relationship was just a way of avoiding relationships, and asking her—asking her—if she knew what she meant.
Nikki knew from her therapy after the murder that she wore a lot of armor. Like she needed the shrink to tell her that. Or to warn her about the emotional peril of constantly deferring her needs, and yes, her desires, by packing them too safely inside her no-go zone. Those shrink sessions were long past, but how often lately had Nikki wondered—scratch that—worried, when she threw up her barriers and put herself in full Task Orientation Mode, if there might be this tipping point at which you can lose something of yourself you have been sheltering and never get it back. For instance, what happens when that hard coating you’ve developed to protect the most vulnerable part of you becomes so impenetrable that that part can’t even be reached by you?
The Sargent print Rook gave her came to mind. She thought about those carefree girls lighting paper lanterns and wondered what became of them. Did they keep their innocence even after they stopped wearing play dresses and lost their soft necks and unlined faces? Did they lose the joy of play, of knowing what it was like to romp barefoot on damp grass simply because it felt good? Did they hold onto their innocence or had events invaded their lives to make them wary and vigilant? Did they, a hundred years before Sting wrote it, build a fortress around their hearts?
Did they have sport sex with ex–Navy Seals just to get their heart rates up?
Or with celebrity journalists who hung with Mick and Bono?
Not to compare—oh, why not?—the difference with Rook was that he got her heart rate up first and that’s what made her want him. From that initial blood rush her pulse had only beat faster.
What was it that made sex with Jameson Rook so incredible?
Hm, she thought, he was passionate, for sure. Exciting and surprising, uh huh. And tender, too, at the right times, but not too soon—and not too much, thank God. But the big difference with Rook was that he was playful.
And he made her playful.
Rook gave her permission to laugh. Being with him was fun. Sleeping with him was anything but solemn and earnest. His playfulness brought joy into her bed. I still have my armor, she thought, but tonight, anyway, Rook got in. And brought me with him.
Nikki Heat had discovered she could be playful, too. In fact, she rolled toward him and slid down the bed to prove it.
Her cell phone startled them awake. She sat up, orienting herself in the blinding sunlight.
Rook lifted his head off the pillow. “What’s that, a wake-up call?”
“You had your wake-up call, mister.”
He dropped back on the pillow with his eyes closed, smiling at the memory. “And I answered.”
She pressed the cell to her ear. “Heat.”
“Hi, Nikki, did I wake you?” It was Lauren.
“No, I’m up.” She fum
bled for her watch on the nightstand. 7:03. Nikki worked to clear her head. When your friend from the medical examiner’s office calls at that hour, it’s generally not social.
“I waited until after seven.”
“Lauren, really, it’s fine. I’m already dressed and I’ve had my exercise,” Nikki said, looking at her naked reflection in the mirror. Rook lifted himself up and his smiling face appeared in the mirror with her.
“Well, that’s half-true,” he said in a hushed voice.
“Oh…Sounds like you have company. Nikki Heat, do you have company?”
“No, that was the TV. Those ads come on so loud.” She turned to Rook and put a finger to her lips.
“You have man company.”
Nikki pressed for a change of subject. “What’s going on, Laur?”
“I’m working a crime scene. Let me give you the address.”
“Hang on, I need something to write with.” Nikki crossed to the dresser and grabbed a pen. She couldn’t find a pad or paper, so she flipped over her copy of First Press with Rook and Bono on the cover and wrote on the vodka ad on the back. “OK.”
“I’m at the impound lot near the Javits.”
“I know the impound. That’s West, what, 38th?”
“Yes, at 12th,” said Lauren. “A tow driver found a body in a car he was hauling. First Precinct’s got jurisdiction, but I thought I’d give you a call because you’re definitely going to want to come by for this. I found something that might relate to your Matthew Starr case.”
“What? Tell me.”
Nikki could hear voices in the background. The mouthpiece rustled as Lauren covered it and spoke to someone, then she came back on. “Detectives from the First just got here all hot to trot, so I’ve got to go. See you when you get here.”
Nikki hung up and turned to see Rook was sitting on the edge of the bed. “Are you ashamed of me, Detective Heat?” He said it with a theatrical air. Nikki could hear a bit of the Grand Damn in his posh accent. “You bed me, but you hide me from your high-class friends. I feel so…cheap.”