Something's Cooking Read online

  He shifted his weight, turning to tuck her body against his, her back pressing the back of the sofa. His hand descended to her breasts, her waist, her hips, and her body burned wherever he touched her. His devouring kisses, and the long, lean, hard feel of his body, his soapy, spicy scent were intoxicating. She slid down on the sofa, so that he covered her. She wanted to feel his weight, his strength protecting her, surrounding her…within her. She arched toward him, aching for his nearness, needing more.

  He stopped suddenly and lifted himself from her, his breathing ragged and his eyes clouded with desire—a desire, she knew, that mirrored her own. She could see the struggle raging within him.

  “I must be crazy,” he said finally, sitting up, turning away from her as his fingers raked his hair.

  “Yes.” The word rolled off her tongue, and her eyes met his as she leaned toward him, her hand pressed lightly against his back.

  “I didn’t bring you to my house for this.”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t take advantage of this situation.”

  “This isn’t taking advantage, Paavo.”

  She sat up beside him and reached out to touch his hair, but he grabbed her hand in midair. His tone was hard. “Stop. Sometimes you are so naive, for all your outward sophistication.”

  She felt as if she’d been slapped. She blinked, straightened, and pulled her hand away. “Naive?” What was he trying to tell her? Convenient? Naive? Every time she opened herself to him, tried to show warmth, responsiveness, he cut her off at the knees. Well, no more. Her cheeks burned from his rejection. “You don’t have to make excuses to me, you know! A warm fire, good brandy, and a presumably functioning male. It meant no more than a way to pass some time. Convenient, in fact. You needn’t take it personally, Inspector.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  She crossed the room, her back to him. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.”

  He stood as well, his lips tight as the full impact of her words struck him. “We should get some sleep. We’ve got a lot of traveling to do tomorrow.”

  “Yes.” The word was choked. So he was sending her away, as she had requested, after all. “We have much to do.” She didn’t want to leave, but she had no choice. The obstacles were insurmountable. Throughout all this, he’d thrown nothing but accusations at her, though she’d done nothing to deserve them. Childish and naive, he’d said, even pampered. She surreptitiously eyed him standing there looking so angry. And now he meant to shunt her and all her faults far away from him. She shut her eyes a moment, her fingernails digging into her palms. Maybe once she was gone he’d appreciate the real Angie, the Angie his stubbornness had lost him forever.

  Nose in the air, eyebrows arched, she said, “Good night,” then sashayed into the bedroom with all the regalness of a queen dismissing a lowly servant.

  19

  The ocean fog had burned off by eight o’clock the next morning, and by nine, the sun was shining.

  Angie smiled continuously, saying nothing as she cooked breakfast. Paavo kept a wary eye on her, his expression filled with awkwardness and perhaps even a little guilt over all that had passed between them the night before, as well as a degree of uncertainty over her changed demeanor. As she cleaned up the kitchen she sang, in her off-key voice, one Barry Manilow hit after the other. Paavo’s wince told her he wasn’t one of Barry’s biggest fans. When she got to the song about Lola the showgirl, he looked ready to writhe in agony.

  “Are you ready to go?” he asked as she hung the dishcloth on the rod.

  “It’s so early.” Her voice was sweet as sugarwater.

  “It’s nine-fifteen. It’ll take a couple of hours to get there, and I need to get back to the department some time today.”

  “Oh, you need to work? I should have realized. Silly me!” Without giving him a chance to reply, she went into his bedroom and shut the door.

  She let an additional fifteen minutes pass before she opened the door and came out. Inspector Smith had paced a groove into his carpet.

  “All right.” She nearly sang the words.

  “Finally.”

  She gave him an innocent smile. “I’m so sorry. I’d hate for you to waste time on my case.”

  “Angie—”

  “Miss Amalfi, if you don’t mind. I’ve decided you’re quite correct. We don’t know each other in the slightest, and keeping a strictly professional relationship is important. After all, once this case is over with, our paths certainly won’t cross again.” She had the keys to her Ferrari in her hand, and now held them in the air, between her thumb and forefinger. “You’ll drive, Inspector?”

  “Sure…Miss Amalfi.” He took the keys. “Look, I know you’re upset about last night—”

  “Upset? You flatter yourself, Inspector.” She breezed out his front door, then glanced over her shoulder at him and batted her eyelashes. “My bags are in the bedroom.”

  She sauntered to her car and then leaned against the passenger door and waited. Convenient, was she? Naive? Upset? We’ll see, Inspector, she thought.

  He came out of his house carrying her bags, four small pieces of fitted Ferrari luggage. He put them down, locked the deadbolt on the front door of his house, carried the bags to the Ferrari, and put them down again as he unlocked the trunk in the front of her car. She pointed to where the pieces were designed to fit—two in the trunk and two behind the seats. He then opened her car door and swept his arm toward the car seat in a way that would have done Serefina’s chauffeur proud. Angie ignored his sarcasm.

  His expression was immobile as he got into the driver’s seat beside her. The interior of the car felt tiny.

  Paavo drove in silence. As they crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, leaving the city, Angie suddenly felt sentimental.

  “I’ve always loved the view from this bridge,” she said. “The city looks so white, like a dove. St. Francis would approve of his namesake, I think.”

  “Soon you’ll be able to enjoy the city again, just like you used to do.”

  “Right.” She sank back against the plush leather seat. Why didn’t the thought of the way she used to live please her?

  She stole a glance at Paavo, his gaze fixed upon the roadway. He looked foreboding, brooding, even sexy. She sighed and turned her attention to the rolling hills and bay inlets that were Marin County. She didn’t want to notice him any longer. Why was it that the more she pushed him away, the more she wanted him to wrap his arms around her and make her fears vanish? Why did she continue to throw herself against a brick wall—hell, a steel wall—with this man?

  She tightened her jaw. He’d been a challenge, and nothing more. Other men threw themselves at her, but he didn’t, ergo she wanted him. He was a sort of sexual Rubik’s cube to her, and now playtime was over. No big deal.

  She looked at his strong hands gripping the steering wheel and folded her own hands on her lap. He glanced at her, his gaze drifting upward, leaving a trail of heat in its wake until his eyes met hers. He quickly turned away.

  Her throat tightened. She kept her eyes forward, not daring to look at him again as the Ferrari carried them over the coastal mountains and through groves of California redwoods to the twisting, narrow cliffside highway that edged the Pacific Ocean.

  In the heart of Bodega Bay, a once-flourishing fishing village turned artists’ colony, they found the realtor from whom Angie had rented a house. The realtor turned over the key and instructions, and Angie turned over a healthy deposit.

  Paavo swung the Ferrari into the driveway of a modern, ranch-style house on a beautiful setting overlooking the ocean. The house, the town, the hills, and the ocean carried the serenity and peacefulness Angie longed for. But they also held loneliness.

  Paavo got out of the car and looked at the house, then at Angie. “It’s rather nice,” he said wryly.

  Whatever was the man thinking of now? The place wasn’t particularly large. The realtor had told her it had only two bedrooms, a living/dining room co
mbination, kitchen, and small den. There was a laundry room, two and a half baths, and a hot tub. The garage fit only two cars.

  She shrugged and got out of the car. “It’s only a modest place. But if I’m not going to live in an apartment, I need some amenities.”

  “Without a doubt.”

  Paavo picked up two of her suitcases and followed her into the living room. A wall of windows and glass doors leading to a rear patio framed a majestic view of the ocean. The room was richly furnished in rustic modern style, with leather and heavy hand-rubbed woods that looked both comfortable and functional.

  Paavo said nothing, but she’d come to know him well enough to see the subtle softening of his eyes as he looked over the room, and the hint of a smile as he absorbed the view. She knew he liked what lay before him.

  If only he’d stay, she thought, her heart wrenching as she watched him quickly check out the house. She had to admit that the more she learned about him, the more she cared, and the more she wanted to find a way to bring him some happiness. His will was strong and his heart, she had learned, was as big as he was. Even when she had been annoying him that morning, she wanted him with her. She felt lost when he wasn’t near. She remembered his kisses, the feel of his arms and hands holding her, caressing her, just last night. Yes, she wanted him—for more than companionship.

  Flustered by her thoughts, she carried a suitcase into the master bedroom. She heard Paavo go out to the car to pick up the rest of her things. In a moment he was behind her, putting down her other suitcases.

  “If you’ll drop me off at the police station,” he said, “I’ll talk to the police, then get a rental car back to the city.”

  She took a deep breath. He really was leaving her. “Of course, I’ll drive you,” she whispered.

  She suddenly felt like a traitor, hiding in safety while Paavo went out there, looking for the one who had killed Matt and Sam, and for whoever it was who wanted to kill her. “I don’t suppose you’d like some lunch before you go?”

  He stepped toward her as if drawn without volition, and then his shoulders stiffened and he turned away. “I’d better not. It’s a long drive back, and I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  “I see.” She grabbed her car keys and hurried from the house. Paavo followed.

  A few minutes later, she pulled up in front of the police station. “Do you want me to wait?” she asked.

  “No. They’ll help me get a car back.”

  “I see. Well, I guess that’s it then.”

  He nodded.

  “You’ll let me know when it’s safe to go home, right?”

  “Someone will contact you.”

  Someone. She nodded.

  He put his hand on the car door-handle. “Good-bye, Miss Amalfi.”

  “Take care of yourself, Inspector.”

  He got out of the car and walked toward the police station. Angie drove off before he reached it. Some things were too hard to watch.

  20

  Angie slammed her pen down on the desk and leaned back in her chair, folding her arms in exasperation. She had tried to work on her San Francisco history, but this archaic means of writing was hopeless. Before she could get an idea on paper she would lose her train of thought.

  Some things couldn’t wait, however. She picked up her pen and a fresh sheet of paper and carefully wrote across the top “‘EGGS AND EGG-ONOMICS’ by Angelina Amalfi.” An essay on consciousness-raising with kiwis followed. To this, she added a recipe for Snicker Doodles from a Mrs. Barra in El Cerrito and Baba Rum Balls from a Cloris Barnes in Hayward.

  Pleased with her effort, she slipped the papers in an envelope and put it aside to mail the next day. It was already six in the evening, too late for that day’s mail pickup. She had decided that even though she was forced to hide out in Bodega Bay, she wouldn’t disappoint either her boss or her readers. In fact, she had mailed in a column on the very day she had arrived. This would be her second from the seaside.

  She went into the living room and stood by the glass wall facing the ocean to watch the sun set over the Pacific. The waves crashed against the rocks far below the cliff that edged her property.

  In the three days that she had been in Bodega Bay, she had come to find the sound comforting. No matter what happened to her, the waves would slap against those rocks for eternity. In the end, she was no more than a speck of sand on a beach.

  Three days and two nights in Bodega Bay. It sounded like an ad for a lost weekend. She had never been alone like this before; there had always been friends or relatives close at hand. She talked to her family by telephone, telling them she had gone on a writer’s vacation so that she could work in peace on her history book. Their only reaction was astonishment at her dedication to her work. Their clumsy attempts at trying to find out if Paavo was with her were dismissed with an emphatic, Garbo-esque, “I vant to be alone.”

  She had quite a shock the first time she attempted to use the television set. There was no cable in the area, so her choice was limited to three stations: snow, snowier, or snowiest, and even the voices were full of static and garbled. She found herself reading more than she had in years.

  Soon, she’d learn to forget Paavo Smith. Their good-bye had been final, and she accepted it. She was out of his jurisdiction now, and since she no longer provided human bait for Matt’s killer, he no longer needed to contact her. She could see that she’d deluded herself into thinking he’d ever done anything for her personally. Oh, sure, he didn’t want her killed, but that was his job. The extra part, the motivation from the heart, was because of Matt. It hurt, more than she wanted to admit.

  The feelings Inspector Paavo Smith aroused in her were impossible to understand. Oh, he was nice looking—but she knew plenty of good-looking men, some so handsome she felt plain when she was with them. No, it wasn’t his appearance that caused this strange, confusing reaction.

  He was obviously intelligent, although he had no college training. Ph.D.’s in all kinds of specialties had waltzed into, and then out of, her life. In fact, she had always been rather attracted to the ascetic, intellectual type—at least she thought so. No, it wasn’t his intellect.

  Most of the men she knew had great elegance in their manner, and always treated her like a delicate lady of leisure. Paavo glared at her, criticized her, laughed at her, and threw her over fences in the dead of night. No, it certainly wasn’t his manner.

  She knew it wasn’t his money. And it definitely wasn’t his profession.

  Yet somehow, she had been able to laugh around him and feel safe when she was in the most frightening predicament of her life. She was able to care about him and his friends rather than just herself. When she was scared, he made her feel brave, even if it was because he made her so darn angry that her anger was all she could think of.

  How did he manage that?

  He did have charm. Yes, he did. And maybe he wasn’t another Clark Gable, but she found his looks exceptionally appealing. And, frankly, she found his conversation more interesting than that of a whole roomful of Ph.D.’s.

  In many ways he was a lot like her father. Her father had far less education than Paavo, but he knew more about life and more about people than anyone she had ever met. He was a self-made man and had spent a lifetime working hard for everything he had. It was only in the last two years, since his bypass surgery, that he had allowed himself to slow down at all. And he was tough. No one could push around Sal Amalfi; no one dared.

  She thought Sal Amalfi would like Paavo Smith.

  She tried to keep her mind off Paavo as she set out dinner: lettuce leaves, one hard-boiled egg (no salt), and brown rice. She was already so depressed she figured dieting, a food columnist’s perennial curse, couldn’t lower her spirits any further.

  After dinner she worked again on trying to find a clue in Sam’s recipes. She was getting nowhere. All of his recipes were for breakfast foods: pancakes, waffles, omelets, or blintzes. But beyond that, she saw nothing. Frustrated, she curled up o
n the sofa and read a mystery until ten o’clock. She finished the book in bed around midnight. Nero Wolfe stories were difficult to put down. Maybe she should write a mystery someday, starring a strong, wonderful hero. She could call him something truly heroic, like Rex Truheart. She smiled. He would be tall and broad-shouldered, with wavy brown hair and big, blue eyes….

  She turned off the lamp beside her bed and shut her eyes. She turned onto her left side, then onto her right, then to her stomach, her back, left, right, front, back, until she sat up, exhausted.

  This hiding out was so leisurely, she wasn’t tired enough to sleep!

  She took a few deep breaths and then lay down again, but the racing of her mind would not stop.

  Unbidden, her thoughts turned to Paavo, and the emptiness that had become so familiar to her descended again. How she missed—

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a faint sound.

  No, it couldn’t have been anything. She listened carefully. The dull roar of the waves lapping against the rocks lent their rhythmic hum to the night.

  She relaxed a little.

  Paavo…. She shut her eyes and began to doze off as she remembered his every feature, every nuance of his expression. She never needed to be afraid when he was near, no matter what was happening—

  Again, a light scratching sound cut through the air.

  She sat up, her heart pounding, every nerve in her body alert, straining to hear. Maybe it’s the police checking on her, as Paavo said he’d ask them to do. The fluorescent numbers on her clock showed two A.M. It’s just an animal of some kind, she told herself. A very small animal.

  A sharp squeal, like a fingernail against a blackboard, pierced the silence. A silent sob caught in her throat as she listened. Someone was trying to break in.

  The bedroom could trap her. She had to get out of there and hide.

  She slid out of bed and put on her slippers. Should she risk using the phone? Even a whisper, in this silence, could be heard if anyone was nearby, and the noise of the old-fashioned rotary dial itself might be enough to alert the intruder. A sixth sense told her to keep quiet. The intruder might be willing to do his work fast and noisily if he thought she’d called for help.