Sinful Nights: Sinful Love Part 9

His eyes darkened. "You have no idea how badly I want to show you other ways to kiss you." He dropped his voice lower. "I want to kiss you until your taste is all over my lips."

She dropped her fork. Her entire body went up in flames. He reached across the table, picked up the utensil, and handed it to her.

"Thank you," she murmured, and she wasn't sure if she was thanking him for the fork, or the o.r.g.a.s.m, or the promise of more and in a new variety.

Somehow, she managed to take another bite of her noodles, but she couldn't rein in the grin as she ate.

He laughed, wiped his napkin across his mouth, and took a drink of his water. "I like seeing you...happy. You deserve to be happy."

Happy was one way to put it. Unlocked worked, too. That first kiss had turned the key on a closed door in her that had been shut tight since Julien had pa.s.sed away. She'd shut off the woman who'd loved s.e.x and intimacy and closeness, as if the lack of it were necessary to prove her grief.

But as soon as she'd let herself go there last night, with her own fingers, she'd become a woman unleashed. It was as if that single o.r.g.a.s.m against her hotel room door had uncorked her. Like a ravenous, starving woman given filet and chocolate cake and fine wine, she wanted more. Wanted to gobble it all up. A second serving, a third helping, and dessert, please, too.

If she could only keep the guilt at bay. She hoped that brief encounter with it in the dressing room was her last, because she clearly had unfinished business with Michael. He'd been her first taste of love, and the connection they'd shared years ago had been so deep and so strong. Even though loving again was too dangerous, surely she was still allowed to experience pa.s.sion and erotic joy, right? Especially with someone who'd once been the center of her world.

Perhaps now he could help her move on, help her heal. She had a freedom with him she wouldn't have with another man, a chance to skip the bulls.h.i.t and come together on a blissful, carnal level with her one-time love. They'd waited for each other when they were younger, but now they'd matured into adults who could have s.e.x without labels. As teens they'd been wildly idealistic; as men and women who'd seen the world, they had the freedom to have unfettered s.e.x. He would be the balm to her wounded body, the warmth to her cold heart. Maybe then she could finally be free to live again, to stop feeling like she was walking around the earth half-alive, with a frozen heart encased in her icicle ribs.

"I am happy. I'm looking forward to New York. It's everything we couldn't do before," she answered him.

"Being young made some things too difficult," he said, his tone both serious and nostalgic.

"Now we can be naughty adults. Do it in taxis, on airplanes, in restaurants," she said, as her dirty dreams spilled forth.

"You want all that? You sure?"

"Yes," she said emphatically, waving her hand behind her as if to gesture to the room where they'd been. "Please don't let my momentary breakdown before scare you off."

He held up his hands. "I a.s.sure you, you haven't scared me off."

"And I a.s.sure you that I desperately want all of you," she said, choosing total directness right now. She didn't get into the why. But the truth was she'd mostly had bedroom s.e.x, and while it had been good, she wanted hot, dirty, thrilling s.e.x. The kind that was spelled with the word abandon. The kind he seemed able to give her.

The waitress appeared to refill their water, breaking up the flirty, dirty moment. That was fine, because Annalise needed to return to their prior conversation. "I wanted to tell you about Sanders and Becky," she said.

Michael nodded, a serious look in his cool blue eyes. "Talk to me. What happened?"

"She seemed off. Like something was really bothering her," Annalise began. She hadn't intended to tell Michael at first, and yet it seemed necessary. The more she reflected on the conversation, the more she wanted Michael to know. She'd lingered on the exchange with Becky, and the fact that her old friend had said ever since the investigation. She shared the details, adding that Sanders had missed the breakfast because of an appointment. "And Becky seemed nervous, but sad, too."

Michael nodded, his expression now intensely focused, his jaw set. "Sad in what way?"

"She wouldn't elaborate, and I don't want to sound alarms. I have no idea what's going on, but something is on her mind. And I wanted you to know."

"I don't know why she'd be like that. But I'll try to see if it means anything."

She reached across the table for his hand and clasped hers over it. He let out a breath and seemed to relax the slightest bit. She rewound to all the times they'd talked about his loss, to the letters and the phone calls from overseas. He'd shared everything with her-all his hurt, all his pain. She'd heard the man cry once or twice, and she'd comforted him from afar as best she could as he told her the horror of what happened to his family the night after she left town.

The story was shocking to her, especially since she'd seen Thomas Paige less than thirty-six hours before he was killed. She and Michael had had breakfast with him at a little diner, eating eggs and toast as they talked about their plans. He was such a good man, so committed to doing everything he could for his son, and by extension for her. She'd thanked him, hugged him, and even told him she looked forward to the day he became her father-in-law. She'd believed it then-at the time, she was so certain she'd marry Michael.

"How is everything going with the reopened investigation?" she asked, threading her fingers more tightly through his, wanting to be his anchor if he needed her, like she'd been before.

He swallowed, his shoulders rising and falling, then spoke. "They arrested one guy, the getaway driver. And they're looking for the mastermind. T.J. Nelson. He was the guy who brokered Stefano's. .h.i.ts. Apparently, he's wanted for several murders over the years, including this one."

She shuddered, imagining the trail of carnage the man had left behind. "Do they think your father's death was connected to the others? I thought with your mother in prison, and the gunman's confession, that they knew the motive." How much more clear could it be? Dora had her husband killed for the life insurance money so she could run off with her lover.

"Yeah, I don't think that's changed. But the shooter had accomplices, and now it turns out the guy she was involved with is head of the whole f.u.c.king Royal Sinners gang."

Her jaw fell open, and her eyes widened. She knew of the gang from all her talks with Michael after the murder. She grabbed her water, taking a drink, processing this newest twist. "She was involved with the head of a street gang?"

"Turns out she was buying and selling drugs from them. That's part of what the cops have uncovered now. She was selling drugs to a whole long list of people, including the two guys they think helped out with the killing. The shooter was her supplier, and the guy she was cheating on my dad with-well, turns out Luke wasn't just some local piano teacher. He's like the 'deep undercover, appears innocent on the outside, but is really head of the street gang' teacher."

Shock coursed through her, spreading from her chest all the way to her fingertips, a cold, liquid sensation under her skin. "Are they arresting him, too?"

Michael rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "That's the thing. They know he's head of the gang, but they have to have specific evidence to link him to a specific crime, so that's what they're looking for. Since all the other players were part of the Royal Sinners, they're trying to figure out if somehow that means my dad's murder was related to the drug trade the gang is part of. The guy who supposedly masterminded the hit, T.J., was involved in a lot of the other gang crimes."

Annalise shook her head, taking it all in. She remembered details that had emerged during the trial-the lover, the affair, the life insurance. Michael had told her everything. Crazy that the crime might have had deeper roots. "Do you think they can find T.J.?"

"I sure hope so. I want nothing as much as I want to see all those f.u.c.kers behind bars. Forever," he said, his voice a low seethe, his eyes sharp as knives. "I will never forget."

His hand tightened beneath hers into a stony fist. She rubbed her palm over it, wishing she could comfort him. As she touched him, a memory flickered before her. A party. His mother saying something about a piano.

"Do you think she met her lover at a party? Your mom mentioned something once about a party with a piano."

"You remember those kind of details?"

She nodded. "I have a ridiculously good memory. I remember her making a dress. I asked her what it was for, and she told me."

"A party with a piano?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

She nodded, then told him bits and pieces from a brief conversation she'd had with his mother in pa.s.sing one afternoon. "I don't know if that's helpful, though."

His expression seemed grateful. "It's all helpful. Every detail matters."

They finished lunch, and he walked her back to the shoot a few minutes early.

"I can't wait to spend some time together in New York," she said, cupping his cheek. His eyes blazed, and his breathing intensified from that simple touch. For a moment she felt powerful, eliciting that reaction in this strong, stoic man. She stood on tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

"I'm counting down the hours." He'd said he had a dinner with a client that night, so the flight would be the next time she saw him.

Then, because she was feeling frisky, and because things had been one-sided so far, she pressed a hand to his flat belly through his shirt. "Don't think I'm selfish. I'm not," she said, whispering in his ear. "I want to taste you. I want you in my mouth. I want to feel you in my throat."

He swayed closer, a s.e.xy sigh escaping his lips. "You're killing me," he growled.

She wiggled an eyebrow, turned on her heel, and left with a spring in her step, knowing that tomorrow she'd come again.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

His grandmother kept everything. Which meant it took him nearly an hour to find the box of photos from when he was sixteen. If his hunch was right, his mom had met Luke that year. He grabbed a s...o...b..x from the top shelf in the garage, cluttered with tools, old toys, and clothes headed for donation.

"Found it?"

"I think so," he said, tucking the box under his arm as he climbed down the ladder to join Victoria Paige, the woman who'd raised him and his brothers and sister after his mother went to prison.

"Let's go inside and paw through it," she said, gesturing to the door into the house. Michael had come straight there after lunch with Annalise.

They parked themselves on stools at the kitchen counter, and Michael took the top off the s...o...b..x.

"What exactly do you think you'll find?" his grandmother asked as she grabbed a thick handful of curled-up photos from nearly two decades ago.

He shook his head. "Honestly not sure, Nana. But I want to look to see if anything gives me a clue about that guy. Any photo at all. I know he had to have been involved somehow. It can't be a coincidence that she was trying to run away with that man."

She nodded resolutely. If anyone understood the drive to leave no stone unturned, it was Victoria. Michael had lost a father; she had lost her son. That loss tethered them more tightly than a grandmother and a grandson should be. Now they were driven by the same need-the one for justice.

What if it was in their grasp? What if there was a clue in the family photos? Annalise had said photos sometimes held surprises, that when she looked at them again, she'd find things she hadn't noticed the first time. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but h.e.l.l, if there was a speck of evidence under his nose, Michael wanted to find it. He wanted to know if there were any photos that would tell him about his mother's relationship with Luke Carlton, and how it had played a part in his father's death.

He flipped through picture after picture from that fateful year, from posed school photos, to shots of Ryan playing hockey, to pictures of Shannon dancing.

"Let me have that one," Victoria said, grabbing at a photo of his sister on stage, leaping high. "I need to frame that and give it to her."

Michael smiled and draped an arm around his grandmother, squeezing her shoulder. "She'll love it."

His sister didn't dance after she tore her ACL in college. She'd become a world-cla.s.s ch.o.r.eographer instead.

Michael and his grandmother thumbed through more pictures. Shots of dance recitals, pictures of sunsets, images of family barbecues, including one of his dad flipping burgers with his grandfather, then one with Michael standing at his father's side, laughing together.

A lump rose in his throat, and his fingers lingered on that shot.

"I remember that day," he whispered.

His grandmother's eyes shined with wistfulness. "You do? Tell me more," she said, resting her chin in her hand.

He shook his head, surprised at the clarity of the memory. "It was just an average Sunday in the fall. October, I think. Dad grilling with Grandpa. Nothing special. They were placing bets on whose barbecue sauce was better, and at some point the stakes were so crazy, we all cracked up. We were all there. Hanging out at your house. I think Ryan and Colin were watching college football, and Shannon was playing with the dog you had then."

Victoria smiled widely, her eyes misty. "Rusty. He was a good dog. Your dad liked him. I can see it all now," she said, then tapped the photo. "Why don't I have this one framed, too?"

Michael scoffed and tipped his head to the walls of her home. They were thick with framed family photos. "Can't frame everything."

"But I can try." She snagged that photo, sighing as she regarded the shot of the men grilling. "The barbecue was the day after Thomas went to that party. I remember it now." She traced a shaking finger across the bags under his father's eyes. "He was so tired as they'd been up real late. He and your mother went to a work function."

Michael sat up straighter. That's what Annalise had mentioned. "The party," Michael hissed. "That's what I want to see. Do you think anyone took pictures of the party?"

"Not me. I wasn't there."

"But what if my dad had them? If someone had taken pictures from the work party..." He let his voice trail off, desperate hope coloring his tone.

She gestured to the pile. "Let's hunt."

He wanted to find those photos. He grabbed the next chunk of pictures and methodically studied each one. There was no reason to believe there would be pictures of a party here in his grandma's home, but she saved everything, so there was always a chance. If someone had taken pictures at the event, his dad might have held onto them...

His heart stopped, then started again. He'd found it. A shot of his mother and father in front of a work banner at a company party for West Limos. Flipping to the back, he checked the date. Yep. The year it all went down. He gripped the edge of the photo as dark anger coiled through him. His mother took from him the person he loved most. His insides churned viciously as he studied the two of them. But it was only them posing for the camera, like some kind of company photographer had shot a picture.

He flicked to the next one. A foursome. Sanders and Becky stood next to his parents. Sanders clutched his wife's shoulder tightly, and she smiled for the camera. Michael's eyes roamed to his mother. He saw her looking to the right, just outside the frame.

Determined to follow her gaze somehow, he tore through the other pictures from the party. All in front of the banner, each one a little farther over, like the photographer was moving sideways. There were only a few more. As he lined them up, he could tell where his mother's eyes had drifted just beyond the edge of the banner.

To a man playing a piano.

Luke Carlton.

Was Annalise right? Had his mother met her lover at his father's work party? Why would Luke be at a work party?

"I need to talk to Sanders again. See if he remembers anything from that night. Anything about Luke talking to my dad, maybe. Anything that could make it clear what role he played."

But when he called Sanders a little later from the car, his dad's old friend didn't answer.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

Michael rapped on the window outside the detective's office. John Winston sat in his chair with his back to him, talking on the phone. He swiveled around, holding up a finger to ask Michael to wait.

As John wrapped up his call, Michael jammed his hands into his pockets, tension curling his muscles tight as the sounds of the police department filtered from behind him-the crackle of the radio, phone calls about cases, the shuffling of papers.

John nodded, then laughed, and at last hung up the phone. He rose, opened the door, and let Michael in.

"How's everything?" John asked, clicking the door shut.

"It's fine." The two of them weren't known for their small talk, so Michael took a seat in the wooden chair offered him.

"What have you got?" John asked. After Sanders didn't pick up, Michael had called John to tell him he had some details to share.

"Are you any closer to getting Luke? Closer to getting T.J?"

John sighed and scrubbed a hand across his jaw. "We're working on it every day. We're doing everything we can."

Frustration slid through Michael's veins at how G.o.dd.a.m.n easily Luke Carlton had glided through life, avoiding arrest, covering his tracks, operating as a criminal so far undercover. "I don't know if it's a long shot, but I think"-he stopped, pausing before he said his mother's name because it tasted acrid-"Dora Prince met Luke at a work party," he said, then showed the detective the photos.