Lie in the Moment Read online

  She’d known that already. Trusting him wasn’t the problem. She didn’t. The problem was that she didn’t trust herself. Her body reacted too strongly to his presence. I’m in over my head.

  She opened her mouth to change her mind, but the thought of going back to her desk tomorrow, knowing she’d had a chance to pick Roland’s brain and hadn’t taken it, stopped her.

  “All right,” she agreed, mostly to prove to herself that she could handle herself, and him, and that she wasn’t going to let him intimidate her.

  “Wonderful,” he purred, and waved a hand to get the waitress’s attention. She hurried over, all breathless, fluttery sighs and pouting lips. Maura mentally rolled her eyes even as she noted Roland’s complete lack of interest or attention. He was too aware of everything around him not to see the blatant invitation in the girl’s eyes, but he wasn’t encouraging her. Interesting. She would have thought he’d encourage fawning wherever he went.

  He handed her several bills. “Keep the change, Cindy.”

  “You’re so sweet, Roland,” the girl replied with a toss of her dark, curly hair. She sent Maura a disapproving glare before she stalked off.

  Maura refrained from commenting, but it took some effort.

  She realized that Roland had moved to stand next to her, his lean, hard body displayed to perfection by the cut of the suit. He wasn’t wearing a jacket and his white shirt was rolled up to his elbows, revealing toned forearms and elegant hands with long fingers. He smelled delicious as well, like expensive aftershave, but also like good leather and rich wool. She doubted there was anything on his body that wasn’t considered the absolute best.

  He pocketed the deck of cards Milton had left on the table, then held out a hand to help her out of her seat.

  Maura stared at it, at the lean fingers and the neat nails. This man wasn’t like anyone else she knew. The men she spent time with—mostly cops—were rough and fun and good for a laugh. Not one of them would get a manicure of their own volition. But for all Roland’s outward polish, she didn’t consider him soft. It wasn’t just that she knew something of his background, of the father in prison or the way he’d run wild on the streets of Watertown as a kid. There was a confidence in how he dealt with people, an assurance that said he had seen everything and could handle what came his way. He had probably never doubted himself in his life.

  She shoved herself to her feet, ignoring the hand he held out to her, and found herself standing close enough that she could feel the heat of his body. She looked up at him . . . way up. She tended to forget that she was short, but not right now.

  “All right. Let’s go.” She meant the words to sound brisk, but they came out husky instead.

  He nodded, gesturing for her to precede him from the bar.

  SHE WOULDN’T BE an easy mark, he decided, analyzing Maura as she marched ahead of him from the bar. Her gaze constantly shifted around the room, and she kept her hand close to the weapon holstered beneath her coat and jacket. She wasn’t carrying a purse, the way most women did, so he would bet that whatever else she’d brought with her, she had it on her.

  What was she up to? She had made no secret of her contempt for him in spite of the fact that she found him attractive. Her eyes had dilated slightly when she’d stood next to him and her cheeks had flushed, but she didn’t act like a woman who gave in easily to her desires. Based on what he’d learned about her, gleaned from his own investigation, she’d given up having her own life when her brother had been killed, focusing on her police work and raising her niece. She’d had a brief affair with a fellow officer a few years ago, but hadn’t been romantically involved with anyone before or since.

  Still, he didn’t think he was wrong about the look in her eyes.

  Outside the pub, the marketplace was still packed with shoppers and tourists. A pack of young women drinking Starbucks walked by, their attention shifting to Roland. One of them smiled widely, and he heard Maura sigh heavily.

  Stepping forward, Roland took Maura’s elbow. She jerked away from him. Predictable. She’d be easily distracted if he wanted to steal her wallet.

  He held up his hands in a gesture for peace. “Sorry, habit.”

  “I can walk,” she said fiercely. “I’m not like those long-legged coat hangers who like to hold on to you.”

  She was right about one thing—she was definitely not like the other women he dated. She was fierce, prickly, independent, and argumentative. She obviously had a strict black-and-white way of looking at the world and would never understand the concessions that sometimes needed to be made for the greater good. A woman like her should be married and living with an easygoing man who’d take care of the house and the kids while she put away bad guys. So why wasn’t she married or involved with someone? There was a secret there. More than just what had happened to her brother.

  Mulling over how to charm her so she would share the letters more or less willingly, he tilted his head in the direction of Accendo. “Follow me, then.”

  He strolled away, taking a deep breath of air that smelled like fried oysters, bus exhaust, and snow. Roland paused on the corner, waiting for her to catch up to him.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Hungry?” She looked offended. “Are you asking me to have dinner with you?”

  She was trying to be so hard. He wasn’t certain why. Defense, maybe. What makes you tick, Maura O’Halloran? He shrugged nonchalantly. “I just realized that I’m hungry. I thought you might be hungry as well.”

  “Oh.”

  He tried to read her face, tell whether or not the idea appealed to her, but he got nothing. Interesting.

  “What did you have in mind?” she ventured, and this time her voice was softer, as if she’d made a conscious effort to relax.

  “There’s a pizza place near here. A friend of mine owns it. We can get something to go.”

  “All right,” she agreed grudgingly.

  She was beautiful, even with the scowl on her face. Delicate features, big eyes, and that glorious red hair, straight as a good lie, and shiny as the devil’s beard, as his father used to say. His father. That bastard was the reason Maura looked at him like something she’d sat in on the subway.

  “Great. I don’t think Jessie is there tonight. My friend. But I know the other chefs. Pizza’s the best in town.”

  “Yeah.” She shrugged. “I’m sure it’s great.”

  He turned in the direction of Jessie’s pizza, which wasn’t far from the marketplace, either, and waited for her to step to his side. He looked down at her, at the dark eyebrows in that elfin face in the light of a nearby streetlamp.

  “You don’t sound like you care,” he commented, and resisted the urge to caress her face. Her skin looked as delicious as vanilla ice cream. He could steal a touch, make it seem like he was brushing something from her face, but he didn’t want to put her back up any more than it was already.

  “Food’s food.”

  Says the cop, Roland realized. She probably got sick of eating out on the job.

  They walked silently together out of the main crush of the market and across the street. Though the sidewalks were crowded, Roland didn’t have to weave his way through people the way others did. Make people know you’re there, kid. Be in your space. People are sheep. They’ll notice whether they realize it or not. His father’s voice, a smooth baritone, was a constant companion, even more than the voice of his stepfather, Representative Jack Chandler. Two fathers, endlessly in conflict, Roland’s head their perpetual game of chess.

  Next to him, Maura seemed to have no trouble keeping up with his long strides, but he shortened them anyway, not wanting her to have to run. The restaurant wasn’t far, just up the street in a brick building with a window facing the street. As usual, there was a line out the door.

  “Is that it?” Maura sounded incredulous. “How long did you plan on this taking?”

  “Not long,” Roland replied absently. Taking his cell phone from his pocket, he used it to d
ial one of the other chefs. “Chris? It’s Roland Chandler.”

  After a brief conversation, a tall thick man with a beaklike nose and sandy brown hair came outside drying his hands on a white towel. The diners waiting in line turned to look as he glanced around. Spying Roland, he waved a hand, almost shyly. Chris liked making pizza. He didn’t like being in front of a crowd.

  “Roland. So glad you could come.” He shook Roland’s hand, who noticed that Chris’s skin felt like the dough that he tossed on a daily basis, dry with just a little give. “Jessie will be sorry she missed you.”

  “Hello, Chris.”

  Chris turned his attention to Maura. “Hi, I’m Chris.” He held a hand out to her, a gentle giant.

  “Detective Maura O’Halloran.” She held out her hand for him to shake, which he did carefully, looking down at their joined hands.

  After a brief, businesslike shake, she released him.

  Roland found himself smiling ever so slightly.

  “Chris, we just wanted to pick up a few pizzas to go. I’m bringing some back to the office.”

  Seeming slightly relieved to break eye contact with Maura, Chris looked at Roland and nodded. “Sure, Roland, no problem. Come in and have a seat. I’ll take your order and box everything up while you have a drink.”

  “Sounds good.” Roland clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder, discreetly slipping a hundred-dollar bill into the pocket of the man’s chef coat without him noticing. No one at the restaurant would accept payment from Roland or his business partners, since they had financed the business, but Roland knew that Chris had five children and a disabled uncle at home. The man deserved a little something for his work.

  He and Maura followed Chris into the restaurant, which was packed as usual. The small bistro tables were filled with locals and tourists, all jammed together and enjoying the pizza, whether they were having a simple pepperoni or one of the artisan pizzas that set the restaurant apart from others of its kind.

  Chris led them to a back table reserved for special guests. It was close to the chefs working behind the glass, tossing dough and arranging the toppings before sliding the pizzas into wood-fired brick ovens with large wooden paddles. The air smelled irresistibly of baking bread, tomato sauce, and melted cheese.

  Next to him, Maura breathed deeply, her small breasts rising and falling beneath her blue shirt.

  “What can I get you to drink?” Chris asked as they took their seats. A server appeared with menus, which he set in front of the two of them.

  Roland looked at Maura expectantly.

  Her lips pressed together, but after a moment she said, “I’ll have a cabernet. House is fine.”

  Chris nodded and turned his attention to Roland.

  “I’ll have the same,” he said, knowing that Chris would bring his finest cab rather than the house wine.

  “Would you like to order now or wait for the drinks?”

  “We’ll take a look at the menu,” Roland answered, though he knew what he wanted. I always know what I want, he thought idly, admiring the way the overhead spotlights made Maura’s glossy red hair shine.

  “Very good,” Chris agreed and hurried off.

  Maura watched him go and then seemed to study the restaurant, her eyes running over the diners in quick assessment.

  “This place looks too trendy to be good.”

  “It’s trendy because it is good,” he argued.

  “Hmmm.”

  They sat in silence for a moment while the noise from the crowd washed over and surrounded them. Roland appreciated her silence. Not many women could sit with him and not feel compelled to speak.

  “I saw what you did,” she said without looking at him. He studied her profile, the delicate line of her nose, the subtle curve to her check, while through the glass behind her a chef tossed pizza dough expertly into the air. She’d set her elbow on the table, the watch on her wrist reflecting the lamp overhead.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “I saw you slip money into that chef’s pocket.”

  “Ahh.” Surprised, Roland placed a hand over his own watch, checking the time absently. It was nearly seven.

  “Why didn’t you just give it to him?”

  Roland wasn’t in the habit of explaining himself. His best friends, who knew him well, wouldn’t require an explanation, and no one else dared ask him anything. He doubted any of the women he’d dated recently would have even noticed him slip anything to the chef.

  Ignoring her question, he asked, “Tell me something. Is it only your father’s opinion that has you so antagonistic toward me, or is there something else?”

  “You’re dodging the question.”

  “The answer should be obvious.”

  “I think you’re just trying to get me to think you’re a decent man.”

  She truly did have a low opinion of him. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. “Of course you’re right,” he agreed easily and sat back. “Not worth the effort of changing that, I suppose.”

  He picked up his menu and pretended to study it while watching her face. She was frowning again, her big gray eyes observing him. She couldn’t seem to decide whether to try and seduce him or argue with him.

  “I know you want something from me,” she said. “Let’s just put our cards on the table.”

  Roland felt a smile tug at one corner of his lips. A smart, direct woman with enough sneakiness in her to make her interesting. How refreshing.

  “Oh, yes,” he agreed, not looking up from his menu. “I definitely want something from you.”

  NOW WHAT DOES that mean? Maura froze, uncertain. He’d admitted that he wanted something from her, but now she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to dig any further. It would be one thing if he needed the resources of the Boston PD, but she was fairly certain that he could have whatever he wanted from the department with a single phone call. So what could he possibly want with her?

  Sex?

  She almost laughed out loud. He may be attracted to her, but she’d seen the women whom Roland Chandler dated and she was nothing like them. No, he thought he’d deflect her with that oblique comment. He was hoping she’d think he wanted sex and be too flustered to call him on his bullshit.

  “So you’ve decided you want to sleep with me? Is that it?” She had intended to seduce him, but she hadn’t expected him to try the same tactic.

  Chris chose that moment to return with their glasses of wine, nearly dropping them as he overheard her comment.

  Roland looked up from his menu lazily, his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Thanks, Chris.”

  Chris looked from Roland to Maura and back again before clearing his throat. “Have you decided what you’d like to order?”

  Roland nodded in her direction. “Go ahead. Tell the man what you want.”

  His eyes were hot, lingering on her mouth. He was trying to fluster her. Ignoring him and his hot devil eyes, Maura ordered a pizza with Italian sausage and peppers before setting her menu aside and crossing her arms over her chest.

  Roland ordered several pies to go before handing both their menus to Chris. The man took off as if his chef’s hat had caught on fire.

  “Well,” Maura challenged, “what’s your deal?”

  “Maybe I have decided I want to sleep with you.”

  “Uh-huh.” She snorted. “Try again.”

  “Maybe I secretly want a feisty redhead who calls me on my bullshit.”

  “Maybe you’re a manipulative asshole.”

  “Maybe,” he agreed, and lifted his wine to his lips.

  Tapping her fingers on her upper arm, Maura considered him. What would he do, she wondered, if I really called him on this BS? Would it be worth it to get an honest answer out of the man? Dangerous. Dangerous thoughts. She was no femme fatale. She wasn’t the type of woman to bring men to their knees and get what she wanted out of them, at least not without her gun and several hours in an interrogation room. Still, this cocky son of a bitch was her best chance at
catching Keenan, and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t find him wickedly attractive.

  “Okay.” The words popped out of her mouth of their own volition, escaping the bonds of common sense that should have held them firmly inside her mouth.

  He paused mid-sip, his gaze meeting hers over the rim of the glass. “Okay, what?”

  “Okay, let’s do it. You want to sleep with me. I want to sleep with you.”

  “I thought you couldn’t stand me.”

  “You’re hot,” she said with a shrug.

  “It’s not your style, Maura.”

  “You don’t know what I’d do. You don’t know me.”

  He didn’t say anything, but those ancient eyes of his said that he did know her, all too well. Those eyes said that he knew everyone and everything and very little surprised him. They were the eyes of someone who saw to the core of people, like a cop . . . or a criminal. She struggled not to back down in the face of that look.

  He chuckled suddenly. “All right. We can fuck tonight. How does that sound?”

  “Great,” she said immediately, her mouth dry. Something about the way he’d said the word “fuck,” the delicious intonation he’d given it, had sent heat sliding through her body. She’d bet her badge that he knew the meaning of the word intimately, that he’d studied its every shade and nuance, and that when he fucked a woman, it was not something she ever forgot.

  He was still smiling as he leaned back in his chair. “Your place or mine?”

  Maura felt herself flush red—curse her Irish heritage; cops should never blush. The thought of going back to her place was just downright awkward. Her father was there, as was Maddie. She’d told them both that she’d be working tonight and probably wouldn’t get in till late, but only because she’d intended to go back to the station if her gamble at the Hairy Lemon hadn’t paid off. She hadn’t actually thought she’d agree to sleep with Roland Chandler tonight.

  “Let’s go to your office. It’s closer,” she answered, attempting to keep her voice cool and unruffled. She didn’t think she fooled him. Hastily picking up her glass, she took a long sip, looking away from him to watch the chefs twirl pizza dough. She could feel his eyes on her, could smell his cologne, and the back of her neck tingled.