Cuff Me(38)

He lowered himself into the car, and Jill rolled her eyes, following suit.

“Why do you think we missed something?” she asked as he turned the ignition.

“We were off our game. Unused to each other after your three months away.”

“Ah,” she said, understanding why he was so Zen about all of this. “That’s why you’re okay with this. Because you’ve transferred the blame to me. I was the one who left. I was the one who was gone for three months. I’m the one who messed up our routine…”

He said nothing as he headed toward the Upper East Side—to Lenora Birch’s house, which was still lined in yellow tape.

“Please, stop with all fervent denials,” she muttered.

He glanced over at her. “I don’t blame you for going to Florida to take care of your mom, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Just the getting engaged to another man part?”

Jill hadn’t meant to let that last part out. She heard the way that it had come out and cringed. Why had she thrown in the “another man” part. It made it sound like she and Vincent had some history—

He said nothing for several moments. Not until he’d pulled up to the curb a couple blocks down from the Birch home.

He pivoted in his seat, one hand going around to the back of her headrest as he studied her.

Still, he was silent, and Jill’s temper snapped. She leaned forward and plucked the damn glasses off his face, tossing them none-too-gently up on the dash.

But seeing his eyes did nothing to diffuse the strange tension in the car. If anything, their eye-to-eye contact made it worse.

What the hell was going on here?

Also, why was it so damn hot in this car? It was winter, for God’s sake.

He jerked his eyes away then, and without a word climbed out of the car, slamming the door.

Jill’s temper was good and truly bubbling now, and she was out of the car in record time, just as he was coming around the front of the car.

“Listen, Moretti. You don’t get to just walk away when I’m talking to you, you—”

Vincent never stopped moving. Not until he was in her face, crowding her until her back was all the way against the car, mere inches separating their tense bodies.

Jill was appalled to realize that she was breathing hard. So was he, both of them all but vibrating with anger, and… and something else.

His dark gaze was furious as it burned down into hers.

“You’re spoiling for a fight, Henley.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he interrupted. “You keep poking at me, baiting me. You want me to say something, but damned if I know what you’re looking for.”

Jill swallowed nervously then and had to look away, because damn it… he was right. He was totally, totally right, on all counts.

“I—”

He moved imperceptibly closer. She felt his breath on her face, coffee mingled with the mint, and suddenly she couldn’t look away from his mouth.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” he said in a gravelly voice. “You were right before. You were the one who left. You were the one who met a man. You were the one who got a ring on your fourth finger in record time. You left me, yes. But I don’t resent you for it, and I never have. You got that?”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I got that.”

“I may not be the effusive type, but I care about you, Henley. I want you to be happy, even if that means you and I part ways. You got that too?”

Jill’s heart should have flown at that moment. He cared about her. He cared about her. He’d never come even remotely close to admitting it, and just a few months ago, the admission would have sent Jill flying over the moon.

Vincent Moretti cared about her. He wanted her to be happy…

And yet… she wasn’t happy. Not at the moment.

Because as quickly as the euphoria had come on, it fled. For some utterly unidentifiable reason, his admission left her more melancholy than if he hadn’t spoken at all.

Almost as though it wasn’t enough.

He pulled back slowly, and she felt the loss of his body warmth acutely. She lifted her hands to pull him back, only to realize the utter insanity of that. Instead she shoved them in her pockets and squeezed her eyes shut.

Tom. Think of Tom. You’ll see him in just a few hours, and everything will be fine…

“Henley, let’s get a move on it. We’ve got a case to solve,” Vincent called, already several feet down the sidewalk.

Right. She took a deep breath, opened her eyes.

They had a case to solve.

Likely the last they’d have together.

Might as well make it a good one.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


Vincent’s apartment was the one place where the Moretti family never gathered. Ever.

He didn’t blame them.

His place was quintessential bachelor pad.

Beat-up hardwood floors. A Spartan black leather sectional that had probably seen better days even back in the Reagan administration. A dented coffee table. Nary a throw pillow in sight. A big-ass TV that had cost far more than the couch, coffee table, and nonexistent throw pillows combined.

He kept the kitchen clean, but it was small; just big enough for him to keep himself fed, and certainly not large enough to host his big, chronically hungry Italian family.