CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Picked up a tail-Dax guessed that was one way to put his problem, and it was true. He did have a guy on him, no doubt one of Lieutenant Loretta’s, but then there was this other part of his problem, the bigger part, the “trying to pick up a tail” part of his problem, or at least trying to pick up a piece of it. He was going to give it another five minutes, and then he’d head out, lose the cop, and make straight for Commerce City. The corner of Vine and Hoover, where Johnny Ramos had taken Easy, was a good location, within striking distance of Bleak’s warehouse without being too close for comfort.

From up on the catwalk, he checked the whereabouts of the plainclothes cop. The guy wasn’t bad at his job. He just wasn’t good enough not to tip off Dax. By far, the more interesting person working the room was Suzi Toussi. According to his reckoning of the sale tags, she was close to selling a quarter-million dollars’ worth of naked angels here tonight.

He was impressed and even thinking of buying one of them himself. The Johnny Ramos paintings were very cool, stark, very hard-edged, and Dax liked that. He wanted a coolheaded, hard-edged guy watching over Easy. But the other model, the blond-haired guy-the paintings of him were different, somehow more profoundly involving, more emotionally complex. One on the west wall, in particular, kept drawing Dax’s attention. It was one of the most transcendent paintings he’d ever seen, the kind of piece he wouldn’t mind looking at for the next fifty years, the kind of piece that might help a guy get through the night sometime-and God knew, every now and then a guy needed a little help getting through the night. Nikki McKinney’s process for her art included photography and paint, and for this piece she’d printed a life-size, high-contrast photograph of the angel in a creamy sepia tone on canvas and painted over the top of that in incredibly luminous, sheer colors, more like glazes, in a dozen shades of yellow, gold, and blue. The angel seemed to be in the act of lifting off the canvas, and in Dax’s eyes, there was no doubt about where he was going: straight to Paradise.

And there was something about him that said he could take you there, too.

He felt Jane come up beside him, from a moment spent talking to another guest. “I used to pray to that angel,” she said.

Dax nodded. He definitely understood the impulse.

“How much is it?” he asked.

“It’s not for sale.”

He gave her a curious look.

“I think we’ve all prayed to it at some time or another over the last few years, since Nikki painted it,” she explained. “So the other angels come and go, but we keep that one.”

And Dax guessed he understood that, too.

“Thanks for showing me around,” he said, and she smiled.

“You’re welcome. If I see Johnny tonight, I’ll be on the lookout for your little sister.”

That was sweet, he thought.

“Thanks.”

The lovely, wild Jane went back to talking to the other party guests, and Dax set his sights on the real wild thing in the gallery, Ms. Suzi Toussi.

She was easy to find-dark auburn hair and jade green shantung silk. There wasn’t anyone else like her, probably not in five states.

At twenty feet and closing, she looked up and caught his eye, and he grinned. She’d been watching out for him.

Good thing. She needed to watch out for him.

“Ms. Toussi,” he said.

“Mr. Killian.” She turned from another man to greet him-and he liked that. It felt right, like the way things ought to be.

“I was hoping you might have a back way out of here,” he said, not mincing words.

A small moue of humored understanding curved her lips and lit the hazel depths of her eyes.

“You do seem the sort,” she said, lightly crossing her arms over her chest, which just did amazing things underneath her halter top.

“Sort?” He wasn’t at all sure that was a compliment.

“The sort who needs a back way out of most things,” she said, and his grin broadened.

“The more discreet, the better.”

“Of course.” She did a quick glance around the gallery. “Is it the man in the poorly fitted gray suit and the intriguingly nondescript navy blue tie?”

She was good, very good, absolutely nailing the plainclothes cop, and his grin got even broader.

“Come on, then,” she said. “Let me show you the etchings I keep on the second floor.”

She led the way up the stairs, chatting to him the whole time, pointing out paintings as she spoke, giving a darn good impression of someone doing a hard sell. At the top of the stairs, instead of taking the catwalk, she directed him to a door at the west end of the landing, and once they were through it, his estimation of her went up another twenty points. They’d passed through to the building next door, an architectural firm, and in under a minute, they were standing in the firm’s foyer, and she was keying in the security code in order to open the front door and let him out.

“You must know these guys pretty well,” he said.

“Well enough to have their security code,” she agreed, tossing him a smile over her shoulder.

Yeah, he just bet she did, which didn’t really set as well as it should have, considering how convenient it was proving to him.

“Thanks for helping me out.”

“My pleasure, I’m sure,” she said, concentrating on the keypad.

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee? To show my appreciation?”

She finished with the code and turned to face him with her hand on the doorknob, ready to let him out.

“I’m a little busy right now,” she said.

“I meant later.” Light from the streetlamps on Seventeenth was doing the loveliest things to her skin, casting it in warm ecru and soft shadows.

“How much later?”

He wanted to kiss her, but even by his rather loose standards, that was probably rushing things.

“I’m going to be in Singapore at the end of this month,” he said. “I know a great coffee shop on Licho Street.”

“I’m sure it’s charming,” she said. “But I don’t think I’ll be in Singapore at the end of the month.”

“ Bangkok in September?”

She shook her head, a small smile playing about her mouth. “Not likely.”

“How about the patio at Duffy’s Bar at seven o’clock.”

“In the morning?”

He looked at his watch. “About six and a half hours from now. I won’t have long, about half an hour. I’ve got an early flight to catch out of here.

But I’d like to see you.”

“That’s, um, very sweet.”

Sure it was. That was him-sweet. It seemed to be going around.

“Duffy makes great coffee.”

She let out a soft laugh. “I know.”

“It’s a date, then?”

She laughed again, and opened the door. “Good night, Mr. Killian.”

He wanted to touch her, just once, to see if her skin was as soft as it looked, and to sort of imprint her, he guessed. But he didn’t. He kept his hands to himself.

“Good night.” That’s all he did-say good night, and look at her mouth, and walk out the door, and wonder if she would show up at Duffy’s.

He’d be there. That was for damn sure.

Well, if this wasn’t the craziest, most soul-searingly sensual thing she’d ever done, getting hot and naked and tearing up the sheets with Johnny Ramos, Esme didn’t know what would be, not that Esme the Wanton gave a damn.

Oh, my, God… she arched her back, and he pushed into her again. Oh, my, God.

The temperature in the bedroom had risen fifteen degrees since they’d started taking each other’s clothes off. He’d turned on a bedside lamp, and she could see the flex and give of his muscles with every move he made. She could feel the matching rhythm of his body inside hers.

He did it again, thrust into her, and her eyes drifted closed on a wave of pleasure.

Oh, my, God… they should have been doing this years ago. She’d been wrong that long-ago night in Roxanne. She should have… should have… oh, my, God… He was so deep inside her, pressing into her, short, hard thrusts, winding her up, taking her higher, pushing her closer, until she… until he slowed it down again, pulling out of her, kissing her, and slowly working his way down her body with his mouth.