Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(38)

She would only have a mil isecond for decisions. If he was alone, she would cal his name, watch him turn so she wouldn’t have to shoot him in the back. She would put a bul et in the center of his chest.

She crept to the edge of the bedroom wal .

Her front door creaked. The bastard was opening it.

One. She exhaled. Two . . .

She swung around the corner, crouching into firing position as her visitor cal ed into the house, “Erainya?”

His voice saved his life.

J.P.’s back was to her. Her Colt was leveled at the stretch of white broadcloth between his shoulder blades.

She caught her breath.

He sensed her, turned in time to see the gun drop to her knee.

He held up his hands, one of which held a bouquet of snapdragons. “May I request a last meal with a beautiful woman?”

She was trembling.

She had almost kil ed the only man she would never consider kil ing.

She was furious with him. What the hel was he doing here?

She wanted to drive him off, tel him to go the hel away. Right now she was as dangerous as a downed power line. Murder danced in her nervous system.

J.P. smiled.

How could he look at her like that?

Here she was with her bare wet feet, her grungy work clothes, her bloodshot eyes and her runny nose, ambushing him with a goddamn .45—and he was looking at her like she was the best thing he’d ever seen.

“I could’ve kil ed you,” she said.

“I was thinking Italian.”

She rose, took a shaky breath, and let the gun fal uselessly to her side. “If the last meal is that good, honey, I suppose I’ve got to share it.”

According to the radio, half the West Side was underwater. Woodlawn Lake had overflowed, manhole covers burst open, storm drains exploded into geysers. Hundreds of residents were stranded on rooftops.

Four teenagers had disappeared, sucked into the current while trying to body-surf a drainage ditch.

Even the affluent North Side had not been spared. Right down the street from J.P.’s chosen restaurant, at the corner of Basse, an elderly couple’s Cadil ac had turned into an underwater coffin. Erainya could see the police lights flickering through the treetops.

But you could tel none of that from the crowd at Paesano’s. The parking lot gleamed with eighty- thousand-dol ar cars. Inside, the elite of San Antonio packed the dining room, laughing and talking without concern, the air infused with oregano and expensive cologne.

J.P. made everyone’s face light up as he walked through the room.

“Dr. Sanchez!”

Surgeons, trial lawyers, politicians rose from their tables to shake his hand. J.P. introduced Erainya, though it was clear none of them cared about her. J.P.’s arm around her waist, his complete deference toward her, seemed to irritate his acquaintances.

J.P. politely cut short each conversation, declining their offers for a drink.

“You must excuse me,” he told them. “When I am with Miss Manos, my time becomes very valuable.”

Erainya loved him. She loved the way his friends’ mouths hung open, the way their wives stared after her as they wrung their diamond bracelets.

J.P. had managed to reserve the restaurant’s best table—a corner spot with windows overlooking the golf course and, across Basse, the man-made canyon that had once been the Alamo Cement Quarry. She could just make out J.P.’s house, there on the far rim of the canyon, its windows bright with buttery light.

Erainya wondered if this was a subtle invitation, eating dinner within sight of his bedroom. But no—she would think that way. J.P. wouldn’t.

Last night he had comforted her so patiently, asked no questions, expected nothing in return. He had completely understood when she wanted to sleep next to Jem, so they ended up camping out in his living room, al three of them—down sleeping bags on his plush carpet, bowls of popcorn, flashlights, Yu-Gi-Oh! DVDs instead of ghost stories. Al night, Erainya lay awake, listening to the easy breathing of her child and her lover, and pondering how she would kil Wil Stirman.

J.P. ordered dinner—shrimp Paesano, Parmesan salad, fettuccine Alfredo. He waved aside the wine list and ordered a magnum of ’97 Brunel o di Montalcino, not making a big deal out of it, but Erainya knew the vintage would cost more than she earned in a week. She’d made a point of learning about wine since she’d started dating J.P.

The bottle arrived. He declined a taste test, sent away the waiter, and poured Erainya a generous glass as if it were Kool-Aid or Strawberry Ripple. “So did you get Jem settled?”

“I suppose. He loves this lady . . . Maia Lee.”

“Tres’ girlfriend.”

“Yeah.”

J.P. placed his hand on hers. “If I had to pick one eight-year-old to watch my back in a fight, I’d pick Jem.

He’l be fine.”

She managed a smile. A small knot of worry was twisting in her throat. Jem had never spent the night away from her—at least not since he was very small , before she’d taken permanent custody of him. Baby- sitters, sleepovers . . . she couldn’t deal with them. She’d never been able to shake the fear that he would disappear somehow, leave her life as suddenly as he’d entered it.

J.P. seemed to understand how she felt. He knew what a serious emergency it would take for her to send Jem out of town. But stil he had asked no questions. He just made himself available, in case she needed him.