LifeoftheParty Read online

  “That’s it, big boy,” she whispered, writhing slightly, “show me how the whales do it.”

  He stroked her easy, arching over her to kiss her enormous breasts, her skin warm and tasting of sleep and something he couldn’t define yet still made his head spin. And his cock harden even more.

  “Jesus, Pam, I think I’m already gonna—”

  The doorbell rang.

  His head shot up. “What the fuck!”

  Pam stiffened. “Who can that be?”

  He could feel her pulse kicking up as he slid himself from her. “Fuck if I know,” he said, grabbing his jeans from the floor. Then, out of a habit too long ingrained, he opened his bedside table drawer, punched a few numbers in a heavy metal box and, lifting the lid, pulled out his pistol. He loaded the magazine, then tucked it into his waistband. “Be right back.”

  The bell rang again. Pam grabbed his arm. “Jesus, Roark,” she said, glancing at the weapon, “do you really think that’s necessary?”

  He shrugged her arm away, gently but firmly. How could he possibly explain it to her? Maybe it was the Italian kicking in again, that fiery yet feral part of him wanting to protect his woman and his cave, or maybe it was just the Irish cop he’d always be. Whatever it was, he said, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  The bell rang again, this time nonstop. Roark trotted lightly down the steps and into the big colonial’s center hall. He could see the shadow of a man through one of the skinny windows running the length of either side of the door, hear the bell silence only to be replaced by an insistent banging. Two long strides across the sanded hardwood and he clutched the knob, his other hand hovering just above his waistband.

  “Whoever you are you better be bleeding,” he said.

  More banging before, “Carmelli, you motherfucker! Open this motherfucking thing or you’re a fucking dead man!”

  Roark sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. He opened the door to find Doug propped against the jamb.

  “You motherfucker,” Doug said, swaying slightly. “I’m gonna—”

  Roark stepped aside and let his old partner and best friend fall flatly yet firmly on his face.

  Chapter Two

  CARMELLI RESIDENCE – RIVERBORO

  WEDNESDAY 30 OCTOBER

  10:34 A.M.

  Doug needed to puke. What a bitch he had no idea where the toilet was.

  He reeled from the bed, his feet hitting unfamiliar floor, desperately scanning the room. An uncurtained window, boxes lining the wall, three doors, two on one side. Where the hell was he? Think, think. He left some place to come to…to… “Fuck.” He palmed his forehead, his stomach lurching, his brain ready to roll out of his cranium. He needed to find someplace to hurl in ten seconds or he was going to make a mess on someone’s hardwood. He clasped his mouth and leapt toward the door in front of him.

  Sometime luck smiles at you. Behind the door was a bathroom. Doug threw back the lid and emptied his lurching stomach. Not that there was much in it beyond scotch. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate. Peanuts, maybe? Or some bar food. Whatever. He straightened up, pissed, flushed. To his right lay the shower. He shrugged off his trousers, shorts, ran a hand up his shoulder to slide off his holster—Wait a minute. He reached inside it. Empty.

  The chorus sang in illumination. Son of a bitch. He was at Carmelli’s.

  Motherfucker. He hurled his holster and shirt to the floor and stepped into a cold shower.

  Fifteen minutes later, he walked naked into the bedroom, toweling his spiky blond hair, his gaze falling to the chair in the corner. He laughed, painfully. On it sat a pair of rolled-up socks, shorts still in the package and a clean shirt. Considerations complementing the razor and toothbrush on the sink. This was what marriage got you. Or was it just Carmelli rubbing shit in his face? Didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t use them. So he did, all of them, and grabbing his jacket and empty holster, left the bedroom for the stairway down.

  He had never been inside before, had only seen the house from the street. He remembered Carmelli telling him they had only moved in a month earlier, still trying to get it ready before the babies came. Babies.

  “Back here,” he heard as rolled off the last step, the scent of coffee hitting him strong. He turned toward the kitchen in the back. Sunlight flooded her as she stood at the island, lifting a carafe of that liquid sustenance, her eyes still clamped on her laptop. She tapped a key then turned. Pamela Flynn, best-selling writer. Christ Almighty, Carmelli sure scored huge with her. Even with a belly looking big enough to hold ten babies, with that long auburn hair, those piercing eyes, she was still beautiful.

  He clenched his jaw, swallowing hard. So beautiful he could hardly stand the sight of her.

  “Good morning, Douglas,” Pam said, pouring out a mug. “So great to see you. Thanks for scaring the shit out of me.”

  Now he was scaring women. Nice job, asshole. He took a step back. “I’m sure I’ve won the dick of the year award. Just give me my piece and I’ll get out of here.”

  “Sit the hell down,” she said, shoving a mug of coffee at him. “Now tell me how you want your eggs.”

  “In the carton,” he said. “Couldn’t eat if I tried.”

  She leaned on her hip. “But you could drink, right? If I poured a shot into that mug, tell me you wouldn’t suck it down. But a plate of eggs is a problem?”

  Doug pulled the coffee to him. It hurt too much too argue. “Scrambled.”

  “Thank you,” Pam said, already cracking the eggs.

  They didn’t talk while she cooked, while Roark’s home-baked bread toasted, when she poured him a tall glass of tomato juice. Or even while he inhaled all at a pace rivaling the land speed record. After a couple of aspirins and one more mug of coffee. Doug marveled at how much better he felt. If only physically.

  Because the inner part of him, the part that ached beyond the corporeal, was still taking a beating. In that nest of domesticity and intellect, surrounded by the scents of fresh paint and warm bread, amid NPR, the terra-cotta herb garden and the literary journals, Doug felt stupid and intrusive, as if he were a monkey at a symposium. If there’d been a trap door beneath him, he surely would’ve sprung it. But on the other hand, why should he feel that way? He hadn’t asked to be there. He’d been forced. Roark Carmelli hadn’t intruded in his life as much as battle-axed into it.

  “Thanks, Pam,” he said, taking his plate to the sink. “I’m sure I don’t deserve it.”

  She turned from the sink. “What you deserve is a punch in the gut, but my aim’s off these days. I’ll leave it to Roark.”

  He slung his jacket over his shoulder. “Hey, he’s got some explaining to do himself. Believe it or not, I had a reason for coming here last night. Where is he anyway?”

  “At Serious Joe. Working,” she said, crossing her arms over her massive belly. “Like I should be.”

  “Like I would be too, if you’d give me my piece.”

  “Don’t look at me. The only pieces I handle are fictitious. And after last night I sure as hell didn’t want someone strapped and shitfaced in my house.”

  He leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Jesus, woman, you’re cold.” He shoved his hand in his pocket. Then the other. Then in his jacket. “Damn, did he take my car keys too?”

  “And the car,” said Pam, waddling back to her laptop. “Since he had to move it off the lawn anyway.”

  “Son of a bitch. That means I’ll have to—”

  “Walk? Ought to do you good to go toward something, don’t you think?”

  * * * * *

  SERIOUS JOE COFFEE BISTRO—RIVERBORO

  11:44 A.M.

  It hadn’t been far, only five or six blocks, a little over half a mile to Carmelli’s coffee bistro, Serious Joe. He had to admit, the crisp October air did help to clear his head. In fact, it was a hell of a lot more pleasant outside than Doug knew it was going to be inside. He could see his car parked in the small lot in the back.
His stomach tightened. Even though he loved the man like a brother there were just some things he had no business butting into. This sure as hell was one of them. He stepped inside.

  And into another world. Coming onto lunchtime, Serious Joe’s tables were already three-quarters taken, the buzz of chatter and low hum of jazz filling the sunny room. Doug looked past the potted plants and eclectic artwork to the counter where Roark held court, a small coterie of women oohing and aahing as he worked some caffeinated magic with an especially elaborate French press.

  “Add a little cinnamon and voila!” Roark said, pouring the coffee into a bright ceramic cup. “Java to die for.”

  A woman leaned over, slurping a sip. “Oh Roark, it’s fabulous,” she cooed, gifting him with an interior view of her Wonderbra. “Shelly, c’mere, you gotta taste this.”

  As gal-pal attempted to give Roark another hands-free demonstration of breast lift-and-squish, Doug interjected with, “Dude, I think you have something of mine.”

  Roark looked up, a brow raised. “Well, well, if it ain’t the midnight rambler.” He poured the rest of the coffee into two more cups and, adding them to a tray, directed a server to their table. “Enjoy, ladies. See you soon.”

  “’Bye, Roark,” one of them said, each giving Doug a quick up-and-down.

  Roark folded his muscled arms across his chest. “You have something to say to me, Welland?”

  “I think you know that.”

  “Outside then,” he said, and Doug followed him through the kitchen and out the back door. When they reached the end of the parking lot, Roark turned. “Okay. Talk.”

  Doug stared at his old partner. A million things jumped to the fore, but the only thing he could say was, “Why’d you do it?”

  Roark met his gaze. “Because she needs you.”

  “I’m the last thing she needs. Christ! Didn’t she prove that already?”

  “If that were true she would’ve stayed gone and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” A breeze kicked up and Roark shoved his hands in his pockets. “Look, she came to me asking about protection, but I told her I didn’t do that anymore. So I told her to get ahold of you. When I said that she looked like it hurt just hearing your name, but who was she kidding? I could see she was just going through me to get to you anyway. I said I’d give you a call, but she said she’d contact you herself.”

  “Her number’s on my phone. Did you give it to her?”

  “No. She must have gone through Halchak.”

  “And he jumped on it to get me off the Unit.” Doug snorted. “Thanks, buddy.”

  Roark’s eyes flared. “He didn’t fire you, did he? Because if he did, I swear to God I’ll go down there and tell that bastard—”

  “No, I’m just suspended to Psycho. Unless I go see her.”

  “Then do it,” Roark said, looking genuinely relieved.

  Doug glared at him. “You fucking psycho?”

  “You are if you don’t. And after last night, I don’t need any more proof.”

  “This is bullshit.” Doug held out his hand. “Give me my piece.”

  Roark clasped his friend’s shoulder. “Doug, listen to me, what can it hurt to just talk to her?”

  “Hurt?” He shrugged him off. “What the fuck do you know about hurt, you and that cozy little fairyland you got going on five streets back? Have you ever had a woman rip your balls off and shove them down your throat? I don’t need your Dr. Phil lectures. All I need are my car keys and my piece so I can get the fuck out of here.”

  “Top drawer, my desk,” Roark said, tossing the keys. “Then go fuck yourself on the way out.”

  Doug watched him leave. He didn’t think it was possible to feel any shittier than when he’d first woken up, but there he was, surpassing himself. He picked up his keys, his head throbbing. Suddenly the idea of driving his car into the river seemed oddly calming. He headed toward the back door.

  Roark’s office was just to the left of the kitchen. The man looked up as Doug walked in, then promptly left the room. Good. He’d had enough confrontation for one day. He turned to the office, opening the door.

  A sledgehammer couldn’t have hit him any harder.

  A spiked heel, a slit skirt, those beautiful breasts shifting as she turned from the desk and brushed a dark strand from her uptwist, her eyes burning like warmed sherry.

  “Hello, Lieutenant,” Gina said, aiming his own weapon at his heart.

  Gina couldn’t move, taking in the sight of him. Just like the first time they met almost three years earlier—the calm, cool detective, a witness for the prosecution, and she, the hard-as-nails attorney for the defense. He had a rep as a dogged investigator and Gina was the Last Hope of Lost Causes. After the trial ended he had met her outside to concede victory. Three days, several calls to room service and a pile of tangled sheets later, she had graciously accepted. And she knew that now, like then, it would be easy to succumb, even with so much rough mileage between them.

  Spiky hair the color of sweet corn, eyes so icy blue they were almost crystalline, as his large, muscular body filled the doorway, she knew he carried the lineage of some Viking raid on Britain. Such cheekbones, such an angular nose, such memories of that sensual mouth falling on hers. When he closed the door it was all she could do to keep standing.

  The gun twisted on her finger, upending. “Looking for this?” she managed to say.

  It took a few moments before he moved, but when he did, he was as swift as a panther. “Give it here,” he said, his voice still slightly gravelly, taking the pistol from her, an electric shock shooting up her arm when their fingers touched. He opened his jacket and slipped it into his holster, those aquamarine eyes never leaving hers.

  Gina tossed her head, sincerely hoping that wasn’t coquettish, as she only wanted to see him better. He was looming over her, taking her in, standing so close she felt the heat from his body coming at her in waves. With his collar opened and his tie loosened, she could see the pulse point at his neck thumping wildly. Like how her own heart nearly beat a hole in her chest.

  She licked her lips. “Lieutenant, I know you’re probably wondering why after all this time I—”

  He grabbed her, his big hands clamping around her arms, and before she knew it he had twisted her around, slamming her back against the door.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. “What do you want?”

  He was squeezing the life from her, his hands shaking. “I need your help,” she said.

  His jaw tightened. “And I need you to stay away from me.”

  “But I can’t.” She slumped in his grasp. “Not anymore.”

  Was that a groan? She couldn’t tell. Nor did she have time to decipher it. Because within a breath he was kissing her, her head swimming as his tongue parted her lips and drove inside, silencing anything she wanted to say.

  For the next few moments she existed purely on a sensual level—the taste, the scent, the feel of him commanding every receptor of her being, physical or mental. His mouth was hot, insistent, nearly maniacal as his body pressed against her, his heart thumping wildly atop hers. He tasted of coffee and faintly of mint, his skin smelling of soap, his hair of some vague domesticity, which shot a stab of crazed jealousy through her, making her squirm beneath his grasp. He growled something indiscernible and his hand slid to the curve of her ass, pressing, kneading, his mouth leaving hers to trail hot kisses along the arching curve of her neck.

  She groaned, her skin suddenly electric, sparks flying from every pore in her body. “God, Doug… Doug—”

  No time to finish. Not when those fiery lips had wound their way down her neck to her collarbone, his hand tracing her shoulder and down to the slope of her breast. Again she arched into him, rising on her toes, his cock a steel shaft along her hip. Her hand fell to it and squeezed.

  He bucked against her and shoved her away, snaking his hand between them to rip the buttons from her shirt. A quick flick of the clasp and her breasts spilled from her bra,
Doug seizing a nipple between his teeth, pulling. She jolted against him, groaning, her breath coming hard, shoving her fingers into his hair. As he licked and sucked, the combination of heat and cool sent ripples of beautiful agony through her and she writhed against him, pressing into his groin. Again he pushed her away and, grasping her hips, fell to his knees.

  Gina looked down. “Oh God… Oh Doug,” she heard herself say. He slid his hands down her thighs then slowly slipped them under her skirt, sliding it upward, taking the fabric with them, over her stockings, her garters, back up her shivering thighs until he reached her panties. He looked up at her, one hand cupping her pussy.

  Her chest was heaving, her nipples rock-hard, her panties soaking his palm.

  Those icy eyes caught on hers looked so different now, a kind of fever simmering beneath them. She felt raw, exposed, yet oddly comforted, as if she’d run into someone familiar far from home. She desperately hoped he felt that way too, that it was more than simple lust or there’d never be any hope for them, as when she pressed a hand to his shoulder, his gaze was almost pleading. Right then she would have given him anything. Yet somehow she knew taking was more on the agenda.

  A second later he yanked her panties down and, grasping her ass, sank his mouth onto her.

  A bolt of pleasure rocketed through her, her knees buckling. Good thing he held her up, his hand firmly under her ass as his tongue flicked wildly against her clit, a scream caught in her throat. Almost instantly she came, her hips quivering as he raced his tongue around her clit and over her slit, wave after wave of pleasure gripping her so intensely it flirted with pain. And when he parted her lips and drove his tongue inside her, she almost shot through the roof, her body shaking so violently she nearly tore the hair from his scalp, her fist falling to pummel his back.

  “Stop! Stop!” she demanded, still coming, his mouth relentless as he pushed her higher and higher, his hands gripping her ass so tightly she could feel his nails digging into her skin. Gina didn’t know how much longer she could stand it but she didn’t want him to stop either, wondering what she’d finally say to him when he did. Yet inwardly she exalted.