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 fumbled 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.”
“ ‘Comes with the territory.’ ”
Rook thought a moment and said, “You could have told her I was here for security.”
“You?”
“Well…I did cover you.” He took her hand and pulled her closer, so that she stood between his knees.
“I’ve got an appointment with a corpse.”
He looped his legs behind hers and rested his hands on her hips. “Last night was great, don’t you think?”
“It was. And you know what else last night was? Last night.” And she strode to her closet to get dressed for work.
Rook did the cab fishing on Park Avenue South and hooked a northbound whopper, a minivan-cab. He held the door for Nikki, who got in with one last glance over her shoulder, harboring the concern that Captain Montrose had left a blue-and-white on her and she’d be spotted on her morning after with Jameson Rook. “Looking for Pochenko?” asked Rook.
“Not really. Old habit.”
She gave the cabbie Rook’s address in Tribeca.
“What’s going on?” he said. “Aren’t we going to the impound lot?”
“One of us is going to the impound lot. The other is going to go home and change his clothes.”
“Thanks, but if you can stand me, I’ll wear this again today. I’d rather hang with you. Although, checking out a body isn’t exactly our best denouement. After a night like that, the New York thing would be to take you to brunch. And pretend to write down your phone number.”
“No, you’re going to go change. I can’t think of a worse idea than for the two of us to show up in the same cab at my friend’s crime scene first thing in the morning with bed hair and one of us in yesterday’s clothes.”
“We could show up wearing each other’s clothes, that would be worse.” He laughed and took her hand. She withdrew hers.
“Have you noticed I don’t do a lot of hand holding on the job? Slows down my fast draw.”
They rode in silence for a while. As the cab cut across Houston Street, he said, “I’m trying to figure out…did I bite my own tongue when you kicked me in the face, or did you do it?” That earned a fast check from the driver in the rearview mirror.