Flawless (New York Confidential #1)(57)

Because there were towels whose softness became erotically charged as they slowly dried each other while walking slowly into the bedroom, where, lips locked once again, he angled her backward until the backs of her knees hit the bed. She fell onto the mattress, and he came down atop her in a tangle of towels. They wriggled out of the towels and into one another, breathless, whispering incoherently and touching clean, hot flesh.

Relationship...

Could it really be?

Or was it sex...the circumstances...the world of wonder he’d seemed to open?

For these moments, at least...

Sex.

He was a practiced lover, balancing arousal and tenderness with a fire that quickly escalated into passion and urgency. She felt his lips everywhere, intimately, his hands caressing her, and the size and heft of him against her seemed to make her skin spark with something electric. She moved against him and with him, and felt the delicious waves of heat rise within her until she climaxed with such a surge that it seemed the night literally broke into stars. She lay beside him thinking that there were so many secrets between them, it ought to be impossible to feel so close, so much as if they were one, if only for those moments, and yet she did feel close, closer than she’d ever felt to anyone else.

He held her gently in the aftermath of what had seemed so wickedly wild and urgent. But, she reminded herself, there seemed to be multiple facets to him on every level—the stoic agent who loved gaming, so strong and serious, then filled with laughter when a bar of soap fell.

She could fall in love with a man like that....

Oh, no, no, no.

Like was fine right now.

Lust was definitely in the picture.

He rose up on an elbow to look down at her. “You’re remarkable,” he said.

She flushed. “I’m not at all sure that’s true. But,” she added, touching his face, “I’m very happy you feel that way.”

As if by mutual agreement, they didn’t talk about the day, about jails, criminals, victims or diamonds.

They murmured little nothings to one another.

They made love again. And finally, ridiculously spent physically and mentally, they fell asleep at virtually the same time.

Once again, however, they were woken by the strident sound of Craig’s phone.

He answered it, listened tensely and turned to her.

“You have to go?” she said. “Not another—not another robbery and murder?”

“We have to go,” he told her.

There was something in his voice. Something that frightened her.

She sat up, tension filling her. “One of my brothers?” she asked in a whisper.

He shook his head, and relief filled her. Then he spoke, and her relief drained away.

“No, not one of your brothers. But I think you’re going to want to come with me. It’s Bobby O’Leary.”

Her heart seemed to stop. “He’s—” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

“He was attacked last night. Just the other side of the block from Finnegan’s, by the old St. Augustine’s Church. I’ll drop you at the hospital on my way.”

*

Craig met up with Mike at the crime scene.

The police had roped off the area, and a crime-scene unit was searching it.

People gathered around but then, realizing there wasn’t a body or anything else exciting to be seen, moved on quickly.

The crime scene was the small remaining parcel of churchyard that belonged to St. Augustine’s of the Fields. While not as old as Trinity and St. Paul’s, St Augustine’s was, in Craig’s eyes, both beautiful and fascinating. At a time when what was now downtown was pretty much the entire city and Wall Street was the site of a real wall built to protect the original settlers, the little church of St. Augustine’s was actually in a field, thus the name.

There were no graves left in the little yard. While a few revered priests rested in coffins inside altars inside the church, those consigned to the graveyard had long ago been moved out to a Catholic cemetery in Queens.

The churchyard still retained some beautiful sculptures, though. There were a Madonna and Child, a huge winged angel of victory, a weeping cherub and more. A few little concrete benches sat about, making the area, inside its two-foot stone wall, a peaceful, if small, place for contemplation.

Detective Mayo was there, standing just inside the low stone wall. Craig and Mike flashed their badges to the men in uniform guarding the area, then passed through the narrow wooden gate—though they could have stepped over the wall—and joined him.

“I called you in on this,” Mayo told them, “because I pushed myself in on it since it happened so close to Miss Finnegan’s family pub. I know you guys don’t usually show up for a mugging. Hell, I don’t usually show up for a mugging, since sadly, as we all know, a mugging in Manhattan isn’t considered a major crime. But given that Kieran Finnegan has been unwittingly involved in two recent crimes and works at the family pub sometimes, I thought you two would be interested.”

“Good call,” Craig said. “Not to mention Bobby O’Leary is an acquaintance—almost a friend, I guess,” he said, glancing at Mike.

“A friend,” Mike agreed. “We spent a lot of last night talking with him.” He looked at Craig. “When did he leave?”

“Right at closing,” Craig said. “The very tail end of the night. The streets were almost empty, a few cars and cabs on the road, some people still out, but it was quiet.”