Like No One Else

by Maureen Smith

Genres: African American; African American Women's Fiction; African American Romance; Suspense

Synopsis

She Can Run Ballet dancer Tommie Purnell has finally left her troubles behind her. After a devastating scandal derails her dancing career in New York, she flees to Houston for a fresh start. Once her new dance studio takes off, the rest of Tommie's life follows suit. But when a local woman connected to Tommie turns up dead, Tommie is petrified. . .and doesn't know where to turn. But She Can't Hide When veteran homicide detective Paulo Sanchez walks through her door, Tommie wonders if her troubles have just doubled. She and Paulo had a torrid attraction years ago. . .but she's sworn off men because of too many broken dreams. Yet their sizzling attraction can't be denied, and as their passion intensifies, the killer's body count also rises. That's when all clues point toward the one person Tommie thought she could finally believe in. . .

Release date: December 1, 2009

Publisher: Dafina

Print pages: 417

Sample

Monday, November 9Houston, Texas

Fifteen young girls clad in pink leotards and matching tights formed a line at the wooden barre backed by a long wall of mirrors. The dancers’ faces were a study of concentration as their ballet instructor walked the length of the studio floor, inspecting postures and manually correcting positions. Her rare nods of approval elicited smiles from the lucky recipients—smiles that evaporated the moment another rapid-fire command was issued.

“Adagio, ladies! Release on one, demi-plié on two, pas de bourrée on three, close on four!”

Dressed in a black leotard, a sheer black skirt, and black leggings, with her long dark hair pulled back into a severe ponytail, Tommie Purnell watched as her students executed the steps with fluid, graceful movements.

“Good,” she called above the music flowing from a baby grand piano tucked into a corner of the room. The pianist, a stout, elderly black woman with skin the color of almonds and a tight cap of gray curls covering her head, had been hired shortly after Tommie opened her dance studio six months ago.

“And now for the petit allégro combination,” Tommie announced, facing the class as she prepared to demonstrate. “Stand in first position, demi-plié, straighten the knees—” She broke off suddenly, her gaze snared by a darkly handsome Hispanic man who had appeared in the open doorway of the studio. A battered leather jacket clung to his broad shoulders, and black jeans hung low on lean, narrow hips. Dark, penetrating eyes met and held Tommie’s in the mirror.

Her pulse thudded.

Abruptly the music stopped, and in the ensuing silence, one last dissonant chord rang out.

Tommie spun around in her pointe shoes to face the newcomer. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

Paulo Sanchez inclined his dark head. “Hello to you, too, Miss Purnell.” Even from across the room, his deep voice made Tommie’s stomach clench, a familiar reaction she didn’t care to explore.

Seized by a sudden, terrible fear, she stared at him. “Is it my sister? Or Marcos? Did something hap—”

“Francesca and your nephew are fine,” Paulo assured her. “And so are your parents and Sebastien.”

Tommie inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t think she could handle another crisis, not after everything she and her family had already been through. Besides, she’d had no reason to panic. If there had been a family emergency, someone would have called her immediately, black sheep or not.

Belatedly she remembered her students poised at the barre. They were staring at Paulo, undoubtedly struck by the incongruity of the good-looking, dangerous-edged man who seemed as out of place in that bastion of femininity as a Spanish conquistador at a tea party.

Tommie glanced at her watch and saw that the hour was up. After she issued a stern reminder to her class to practice what they had learned that afternoon, the students, in keeping with ballet tradition, clapped for Tommie and the pianist before they were formally dismissed. Chattering among themselves, the girls stuffed their pointe shoes inside duffel bags, gathered their belongings, and filed out of the room to meet their mothers, who were patiently waiting in a small observation area separated from the main studio by a glass partition. Normally the parents lingered after class to talk to Tommie. Today they departed with raised eyebrows and demure smiles directed at Paulo.

Scowling, Tommie stalked across the room toward him, her ponytail swinging from side to side. “I hope you have a damned good reason for interrupting my class,” she groused.

A faintly mocking smile curved firm, sensual lips. “And if I don’t?” Paulo challenged.

Tommie’s temper flared, even as she silently cursed herself for allowing him to get under her skin. Not that this was anything new. Paulo Sanchez had been getting under her skin ever since she met him four years ago at her sister’s wedding rehearsal dinner. From the moment Tommie and Paulo locked gazes, the chemistry between them had been powerful, sizzling with electricity. But Tommie, who had just gotten out of a bad relationship, knew the last thing she needed was a rebound romance. Still, it had taken every ounce of willpower she possessed to resist Paulo, to ignore the way her pulse raced as he’d escorted her down the aisle at the wedding ceremony, to ignore her throbbing breasts and her aching loins as they’d slow-danced together at the reception. By accident or design, Tommie had caught the bride’s bouquet while Paulo came away with the garter belt. To this day, she still remembered the wicked gleam in his eyes as his big, callused hands had slowly traveled up her thigh to secure the garter, leaving a trail of scorched nerve endings.

That, finally, had been her undoing.

Right then and there she’d decided to throw caution to the wind and indulge in a one-night stand with Paulo. No strings attached. No empty promises. Just one night of hot, mind-blowing sex between two mature, consenting adults who would go their separate ways in the morning.

After joining the rest of the guests in sending off the happy bride and groom, Tommie had gone in search of Paulo, confident that he would jump at the chance to sleep with her. He’d been seducing her from the moment they met, wearing down her defenses until she’d had no choice but to succumb to him.

But when Tommie discovered Paulo and a leggy brunette making out in the bridal suite, she’d been stunned. And crushed. It was abundantly clear that Paulo, having already grown bored with Tommie, had moved on to the next diversion.

Hearing Tommie’s shocked gasp, the couple had sprung apart on the chaise longue. To her credit, the brunette had looked suitably embarrassed as she tugged at her tight little dress. Paulo, on the other hand, had met Tommie’s outraged glare with a lazy, insolent grin. As if debauching women at weddings was nothing new to him.

Without mincing words, Tommie had ordered the couple out of her sister’s bridal suite. The next time she saw them, Paulo was helping the woman into his car. He’d glanced up, and seeing Tommie framed in the doorway of the beautiful waterfront mansion where the wedding had been held, he’d winked and blown her a kiss. She’d felt as humiliated as if he’d jilted her at the altar.

“Why, Tomasina, aren’t you going to introduce me to your handsome visitor?”

Pulled out of her reverie, Tommie glanced over to find her pianist, Hazel Calhoun, standing there with an inquisitive smile on her bespectacled face as she eyed Paulo with unabashed curiosity.

Grudgingly Tommie performed the introductions.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Calhoun,” Paulo said, shaking the woman’s hand. “You play beautifully.”

Hazel beamed with pleasure. “Why, thank you very much, Mr. Sanchez. I’m so glad you enjoyed the music.”

“I did. And please call me Paulo.”

Tommie watched in disbelief as her pianist—a sixty-five-year-old grandmother, community activist, and church deaconess—giggled and blushed to the gray roots of her scalp.

“Where have you been hiding this delightful young man?” she said chidingly to Tommie.

“Not far enough, apparently,” Tommie grumbled.

“Tomasina!”

Paulo’s dark eyes glimmered with amusement. “It’s all right, Mrs. Calhoun. Tommie and I haven’t seen each other since her sister’s wedding in San Antonio four years ago. We’ve got a lot of, ah, catching up to do.”

Hazel smiled warmly at him. “Are you from San Antonio, too?”

“Yes, ma’am. Born and raised.”

“Like Tomasina.” Hazel seemed inordinately pleased that her employer and Paulo shared a common background. “And now here you both are, in Houston. You must have followed each other,” she teased.

Paulo chuckled. “I’ve been here for two years, so I’ll let you decide who followed whom.”

Tommie bristled. “I didn’t follow you!”

Paulo quirked a brow at her. “No?”

“Of course not! I didn’t even know you’d moved here until after I arrived.”

“Whatever you say,” Paulo drawled.

Tommie scowled. “I didn’t—”

“It was awfully nice of you to stop by for a visit this afternoon, Paulo,” Hazel smoothly intervened. “I wish I could stay and chat with you longer, but I have to run to a meeting at church.” She paused, her dark eyes lighting up as a sudden idea struck her. “Why don’t you stay and have dinner with Tomasina? I baked a fresh pan of lasagna for her last night, and there’s enough to feed an army.”

Stifling a groan at the woman’s obvious attempt at matchmaking, Tommie quickly interjected, “That’s very generous of you, Mrs. Calhoun. But I’m sure Paulo didn’t intend to hang around that long. He’s a homicide detective. He’s probably needed somewhere this very minute.”

“Actually,” Paulo countered with a hint of that devilish grin, “I’m off duty. And it just so happens that I skipped lunch this afternoon. A home-cooked meal sounds great.”

“Wonderful!” Hazel exclaimed, as if he’d just promised to feed all the starving children in Africa.

When Tommie glowered at Paulo, he chuckled, a low, husky rumble that made her belly quiver.

After Hazel left, Tommie locked up the studio for the evening. As she led Paulo up a flight of stairs to her second-story loft, she could feel the searing intensity of his gaze on her backside.

She unlocked her front door with unsteady fingers and quickly crossed the threshold, gesturing him inside. “Bienvenido a mi casa.”

“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish,” Paulo drawled as he brushed past her.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Tommie retorted.

He turned to face her, one heavy black brow raised. “Is that a challenge?” he asked softly.

Tommie met his gaze unflinchingly. “Just a statement of fact.”

They stared at each other for a long, charged moment.

Paulo seemed to have gotten closer or loomed larger. She could feel the heat from his body, could smell the old leather of his jacket. At least three days’ worth of stubble darkened his square jaw, and his thick black hair was longer than she remembered, brushing his collar. His eyes were deep-set and piercing, a shade of brown so intense that at times they appeared to be black. They were accentuated by chiseled cheekbones, a firm, sensual mouth, and a swarthy complexion that attested to his Mexican heritage. He was five foot eleven inches of solid power and muscle. Not as tall as Tommie normally preferred, but tall enough that she’d been able to wear stiletto heels at her sister’s wedding without having to worry about towering over him. After the ceremony, in fact, several guests had remarked on what a striking couple she and Paulo made, how perfect they’d looked together—comments Tommie had laughingly dismissed, though deep down inside she’d agreed.

That afternoon, wearing a black leather jacket, black jeans, and scuffed black boots, Paulo looked every bit the tough guy he was. A potent combination of strength, danger, and raw animal magnetism. Tommie told herself to back away from him, but for the first time in her life, her legs wouldn’t obey her command.

As she stood there, air trapped in her lungs, Paulo’s gaze slid from her face down to the scooped neckline of her leotard, lingering on the swell of her breasts. Her breath quickened, and to her everlasting shame, her nipples hardened under his hot, bold appraisal. His gaze darkened and his nostrils flared slightly, letting her know he’d discerned her body’s reaction to him. Tommie had never felt more exposed in her life, and that was saying a lot, considering she’d once moonlighted as a stripper.

Slowly, deliberately, Paulo lifted his eyes to her flushed face. She stared at him, acutely conscious of her sensitized nipples rubbing against the fabric of her sports bra, the melting warmth spreading from her stomach to her loins. She couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, she’d been so thoroughly aroused by a man merely looking at her. If Paulo chose that moment to kiss her, she honestly didn’t know whether she would have the strength to resist him.

And judging by the mischievous gleam in his eyes, he knew it, too.

With one hand he reached up and cradled her face, the pad of his thumb brushing her full lower lip. A shiver rippled down her body. Her heart thundered.

His gaze roamed appreciatively across her face. “You are an incredibly beautiful woman, Señorita Purnell,” he murmured huskily.

Tommie said nothing. She didn’t trust her voice.

Paulo held her gaze a moment longer, then dropped his hand with obvious reluctance and stepped back. Air rushed into Tommie’s lungs as he turned and sauntered away, glancing casually around the loft.

“Nice,” he remarked.

Tommie knew that was an understatement if she’d ever heard one. She’d purchased the converted warehouse shortly after moving to Houston and had blown all her savings on decorating the spacious second-story loft, with stunning results. The space boasted original hardwood flooring, twenty-foot ceilings, exposed redbrick walls, and a spiral staircase that led to a private rooftop terrace. A collection of stylish, risqué modern art she’d brought from New York complemented furnishings done in bold, dramatic shades of red and black. The open, airy layout featured giant support columns that carved out four large spaces—kitchen, living room, study, and bedroom. A huge expanse of windows stretched the entire length of one wall, keeping the loft perpetually bathed in warm, bright sunlight. Since fall had arrived nearly two months ago, Tommie hadn’t needed to turn on the heat once.

She loved her beautiful, trendy loft situated in the shadow of downtown Houston. When she left behind the bright lights of New York City seven months ago, all she’d wanted was a decent one-bedroom apartment and space to hold dance classes a few days a week. She’d found both in a small, converted warehouse owned by a wealthy real estate investor eager to get the property off his hands before he relocated to another area. By the time Tommie had completed her tour of the dusty old building, she knew it was perfect for her. But the sales price had been way out of her price range. As luck would have it, the seller was a huge fan of ballet, and he’d recognized Tommie from a performance he’d attended in New York the previous year. When she told him about her plan to open a dance studio, he’d generously reduced his asking price, enabling Tommie to qualify for a small business loan. She’d used a large portion of the funds to renovate the building, refurbishing the original hardwood floors and installing a barre, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and a sound system in the studio. Fortunately, the upstairs loft had only needed minor cosmetic work.

Within a month of purchasing the old warehouse, Tommie was comfortably ensconced in her new home and open for business. A glowing feature article in the Houston Chronicle had drummed up more clients for her than any amount of advertising she could have done on her own.

She now taught a diverse array of dance techniques including West African, samba, ballet, jazz, tap, modern, and hip-hop. Her clientele included aspiring ballerinas, high school cheerleaders and dance troupes, popular musicians in need of choreography for a new video, as well as local corporations seeking a recreational offsite activity for employees. Tommie knew she’d eventually have to hire additional instructors just to keep up with the increasing demand for her classes. But that was a good problem to have.

Her attraction to Paulo Sanchez, on the other hand, was not.

From the kitchen, Tommie watched as he slowly wandered around the loft before ending up at the wall of windows that offered a scenic view of downtown Houston. Her gaze was drawn to the way his black jeans clung to his powerful thighs and hugged his firm, muscled butt. When her mouth began watering, she knew it had nothing to do with the fragrant aroma of lasagna wafting from the microwave.

Paulo whistled softly through his teeth. “Great view.”

You can say that again!

Aloud Tommie said, “I’m certainly enjoying it.” As Paulo turned, she quickly schooled her features into a blank mask. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Sure. What’re you offering?”

Tommie pulled open the stainless-steel Sub-Zero refrigerator and peered inside. “I have bottled water, mineral water, skim milk, orange juice, pineapple juice, and an unopened bottle of merlot. Sorry—no beer.”

Paulo chuckled, starting across the room toward her. “The pineapple stuff sounds good.”

Tommie vaguely remembered him having only one or two drinks at the wedding reception, while most of the other single guys had downed beers as if alcohol were going out of style. Throughout the evening several of those men had hit on her, obviously operating under the misguided assumption that her status as a bridesmaid meant she was desperate enough to go home with any half-drunk loser who propositioned her. It was sadly ironic that the only man she’d wanted to sleep with that night had left with someone else.

Shoving aside the memory, Tommie arched a brow at Paulo as she filled two glasses with pineapple juice. “Not much of a drinker, are you?”

“Not anymore.”

Something about his cryptic response piqued Tommie’s curiosity, but she didn’t want to pry by asking him to elaborate. Besides, the less she knew about Paulo Sanchez, the easier it would be to keep him at arm’s length.

Or so she told herself.

The microwave beeped, signaling that the lasagna had finished heating. As Tommie fixed their plates, Paulo made his way over to the long breakfast counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. He removed his leather jacket and draped it over the back of a bar stool. He wore a black T-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders and showcased his muscular forearms. The butt of a gun was visible from his shoulder holster.

“Do you make a habit of skipping lunch, Detective?” Tommie inquired as she set their steaming plates on the countertop, then rounded the corner to claim one of the high-backed bar stools.

“If I’m swamped with cases,” Paulo answered as he sat down beside her, “food isn’t always a top priority.”

“I can understand that,” Tommie conceded. “On my busiest days, I don’t even think about eating until my last class is over, which isn’t until eight on Tuesday and Thursday evenings.”

Paulo slanted her a wry smile. “Is that why Mrs. Calhoun prepares meals for you? To make sure you don’t starve yourself to death?”

Tommie nodded, chuckling ruefully. “She loves to fuss and fret over me. She can’t help herself. She raised four children and has nine grandchildren. Nurturing is second nature to her. But I’m not complaining. I’ve hardly had to cook since I hired her, and quite frankly, she’s much better at it than I’ve ever been.” She watched as Paulo sampled a forkful of lasagna. “How is it?”

“Incredible,” he said, sounding mildly surprised. “Probably the best lasagna I’ve ever had.”

“Oh God,” Tommie groaned. “Please don’t tell Mrs. Calhoun that. You already had her eating out of the palm of your hand after you complimented her piano playing. If you tell her she makes the best lasagna you’ve ever had, she’ll think you walk on water.”

Paulo’s straight white teeth flashed in a grin. “Now, now. Don’t be jealous.”

Tommie rolled her eyes. “In your dreams, Sanchez.”

He chuckled, taking another bite of lasagna. “So, how are you enjoying Houston so far?”

“I love it,” Tommie said sincerely. “I’ve got this fabulous loft, my own dance studio. I’m close to the downtown theater district, and I’ve made a lot of friends at the Houston Met.”

“The dance company?”

Tommie nodded. “I’ve already been to several performances there. I never realized Houston had such a thriving arts scene. I feel right at home.”

Paulo cocked a brow at her. “You’re telling me you don’t miss the hustle and bustle of New York, the city that never sleeps?”

“A little,” Tommie admitted quietly. “There’s no place on earth like New York City. But Texas is, and always will be, my home.”

“Is that why you left the Big Apple?” Paulo murmured, studying her with those dark, probing eyes that saw way too much. “Because you were homesick?”

Tommie lifted one shoulder and averted her gaze, becoming absorbed in her meal, even as she felt her appetite waning. She didn’t want to think about, let alone discuss, the devastating scandal that had derailed her professional dancing career seven months ago. She’d never told anyone what had happened in New York. As close as she and her older sister had become in recent years, not even Frankie knew Tommie’s shameful secret. She certainly wasn’t about to bare her soul to Paulo Sanchez, a man who was, for all intents and purposes, a stranger to her.

Deciding to turn the tables on him, Tommie ventured casually, “What about you? What made you decide to leave San Antonio?”

Paulo shrugged, returning his attention to his food. “I wanted a change of scenery.”

Tommie’s eyes narrowed on his face. Just as before, she sensed that there was a story behind his vague response, and once again, her curiosity was aroused. But the sudden tension in Paulo’s broad shoulders and the hardening of his jaw warned her to back off.

So I’m not the only one with secrets.

Oddly comforted by the thought, Tommie said conversationally, “I guess moving to Houston wasn’t such a stretch for you. Frankie told me you have family here.”

Paulo nodded. “I used to visit them every summer when I was growing up. My cousin Rafe and I were thick as thieves.”

Tommie smiled whimsically. “Interesting analogy, considering you both grew up to become law enforcement officers. Guess you both decided it was nobler to play cops than robbers.”

Paulo smiled a little. “Never looked at it that way. Rafe always wanted to be an FBI agent. Me? I had a hard enough time just staying out of trouble.”

Tommie widened her eyes in exaggerated disbelief. “You? Getting into trouble? No way!”

Paulo chuckled. “Good thing I’m a changed man.”

Tommie snorted rudely. “Yeah, right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She gave him a knowing look. “Need I remind you of the compromising position I caught you in at my sister’s wedding, of all places?”

“Oh. That.” His mouth curved in a wolfish grin. “What can I say? Some people cry at weddings. I prefer to get laid.”

Tommie sputtered indignantly, “Sebastien is one of your best friends! You were a groomsman! Couldn’t you at least have waited until after the reception before you tended to your libido?”

Paulo’s grin widened. “Obviously not.”

Tommie shook her head in disgust. “Pig.”

He threw back his head and laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that did dangerous things to her heart rate. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, wishing for the umpteenth time that he didn’t have such a powerful effect on her. He was sexy as hell with his leather jacket, butt-hugging jeans, cocky swagger, and wickedly irreverent attitude. A man like Paulo Sanchez could only bring Tommie heartache, and that was the last thing she needed or wanted in her life.

Paulo draped his arm over the back of her stool and leaned close, his brown eyes glinting with mischief. “Come now, Tomasina,” he murmured, his voice a low, silky caress. “Are you objecting to what you caught me doing at your sister’s wedding, or the fact that I wasn’t doing it with you?”

Tommie stared at him, heat suffusing her cheeks. He knew. The arrogant bastard knew that she’d wanted him that day. He knew how humiliated she’d felt when she stumbled upon him with another woman.

Angrily she jerked her gaze away and snapped, “Don’t call me Tomasina.”

Paulo chuckled, a satisfied gleam in his eyes as he drew back from her. “My apologies,” he drawled. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with Mrs. Calhoun calling you Tomasina.”

She frowned. “That’s different.”

“How so?”

“Mrs. Calhoun is old school. She doesn’t like nicknames, especially masculine-sounding nicknames for females. And she reminds me a lot of my favorite grandmother, who passed away when I was seventeen.” Tommie shrugged, idly picking at her lasagna. “As far as I’m concerned, Mrs. Calhoun can call me whatever she wants. You, on the other hand, enjoy no such privilege.”

Paulo feigned a wounded look. “That really hurts my feelings.”

Tommie couldn’t help laughing. “You are so full of it! Which reminds me, you never did answer my question. What are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “I came to see how you were doing. I wanted to see if you were settling in okay.”

“Just out of the clear blue?” Tommie’s voice was heavy with skepticism. “I’ve been in Houston for seven months, Paulo. Why did you suddenly decide—” She broke off, her eyes narrowing suspiciously on his face. “Wait a minute. Did my sister ask you to check up on me?”

“No.”

“Liar!”

“What?”

“I know the only reason you’re here is that Frankie asked—no, begged—you to stop by.”

Paulo scowled. “First of all, no one begged me to do anything. And even if Frankie did ask me to check up on you, what would be so terrible about that? She’s your big sister, she’s supposed to worry about you.”

Tommie pounced. “I knew it! You did talk to her!” Incensed, she shot out of her chair, snatched her plate of half-eaten lasagna off the counter, and stalked over to the kitchen sink.

Behind her, Paulo said evenly, “I don’t understand why you’re so upset about—”

Tommie whirled around. “Ever since I left New York, Frankie and my parents have been nagging me about moving back home. Every time I talk to one of them on the phone, it’s the same thing. ‘Why do you want to live in Houston, Tommie?’ ‘Wouldn’t you rather be close to all your family and friends, Tommie?’” She shook her head in angry exasperation. “I know they mean well, but I don’t appreciate being treated like some teenage runaway who can’t handle the responsibility of being on my own. I’m thirty-three years old, damn it. I think I’ve already proved that I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

When she’d ended her tirade, Paulo said nothing, staring at her with an unreadable expression. The longer he remained silent, the more Tommie wanted to kick herself for letting her emotions get the better of her. If she had been romantically interested in Paulo, bitching about her problems—when they hardly even knew each other—would have been a surefire way to send him running for the hills. Experience had taught her that nothing drove a man away faster than a woman with too much baggage.

Turning away, she busied herself with scraping the remnants of her lasagna off her plate and down the drain. With the faucet running and the garbage disposal grinding noisily, she didn’t hear Paulo approaching until he appeared beside her at the counter, placing his empty plate into the sink. Tommie tensed as he reached over, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger and gently turning her head, forcing her to meet his dark, intent gaze.

“You may be thirty-three years old, querida,” he murmured, “but you still have a lot of growing up to do.” Before Tommie could open her mouth to protest, he laid a finger against her lips and shook his head slowly. “Just hear me out.”

Tommie glared mutinously at him.

“I come from a big family,” Paulo continued. “I have four siblings and more aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, and nephews than I can count. One thing I’ve learned over the years is that no matter what may have happened in the past or what you may accomplish in life, there’s nothing more important than family. Nothing. The next time your sister or your parents ask you about moving back home, don’t automatically assume they’re trying to keep a leash on you. Consider the possibility that they need you as much as you need them.” He paused, a hint of irony touching his mouth. “And if you think you don’t need them, think again.”

Tommie gazed at him, his words striking a chord deep within her. Her relationship with her family had been complicated for as long as she could remember, and as much as she liked to believe she’d worked through all her issues during the four years she’d been away from home, she knew she still had a ways to go. Her outburst of a few minutes ago was proof of that.

Suddenly aware of Paulo’s finger still resting against her lips, Tommie jerked her head back. “Thanks for the psychoanalysis, Dr. Sanchez,” she quipped with an aloofness she didn’t feel. “Be sure to send me your bill.”

Paulo gave her a small, knowing smile that told her he saw right through her act. As she watched, he reached out and lightly trailed a fingertip down her cheek. Her flesh tingled. Her pulse quickened.

Striving to ignore her body’s reaction to his touch, she glared at him. “You really have a problem keeping your hands to yourself, don’t you, Detective?” she demanded. But her voice was too breathless, too husky with awareness to convincingly deliver the reprimand.

Paulo’s gaze darkened. He shifted closer, subtly trapping her between the counter and his body.

Her heart thudded. She found herself staring at the sensual curve of his lips and wondering, not for the first time, how they would feel against hers, how they would taste.

As Paulo slowly lowered his dark head toward hers, her lips parted.

A cell phone jangled loudly, startling them both.

Frowning at the interruption, Paulo dug the phone out of his back pocket and flipped it open. “Sanchez.”

Turning away, Tommie inhaled a shaky breath, thinking of how dangerously close she had come to letting Paulo kiss her.

Letting? her conscience mocked. You were practically begging him to kiss you!

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Paulo’s expression turn grim as he listened into the phone. “I’ll be right there,” he muttered before snapping it shut and shoving it back into his pocket.

Tommie arched a brow. “Duty calls?”

“Yeah.” There was a trace of regret in his voice. He held her gaze for a long moment, then turned away.

She watched as he strode around the breakfast counter to retrieve his leather jacket from the back of the bar stool he’d been sitting on. “Well, thanks for stopping by,” she said briskly. “As you can see I’m just fine, so you don’t have to check up on me anymore.”

Paulo sent her a wry look as he shrugged into his jacket. “Is that your not-so-subtle way of telling me never to darken your doorstep again?”

Tommie couldn’t help grinning. “You said it, not me.” Grabbing her keys off the countertop, she said, “I’ll walk you downstairs. I have to lock up the building anyway.”

As she followed him down the old stairwell, their footsteps echoed hollowly in the enclosed space, bouncing off the bare brick walls and bounding up to the skylight roof. During the daytime the stairway was flooded with natural light and warmth. At night it seemed cold and cavernous, dimly illuminated with recessed lighting that needed replacing. Getting her dance studio finished had ranked higher on Tommie’s list of priorities than having a well-lit stairwell.

As if he’d intercepted her thoughts, Paulo, frowning at the ceiling, advised, “You should probably get those bulbs replaced soon.”

“I know. It’s a wiring issue, so I have to call an electrician. It’s on my to-do list, along with installing a locker room for my students and getting the intercom system fixed.”

Paulo nodded. “I’m surprised this entire building wasn’t converted into lofts. Those are really popular in this area.”

“That’s what the previous owner intended to do when he first bought the warehouse. He wanted to divide it into four cozy lofts. He only got as far as completing the first unit before he ran into some zoning issues and abandoned the project altogether. Once the housing market crashed, the building’s odd location—not quite in the theater or warehouse district—made it difficult for him to resell without taking a huge profit loss.” Which he eventually did anyway when he sold the property to Tommie way below market value.

“I guess you came along at the right time,” Paulo observed.

“Most definitely,” Tommie agreed. “This building was a steal. I was able to kill two birds with one stone—I found a place to live and a place for my business.”

“What’s the square footage?”

“Five thousand. A bit small by warehouse standards, but mor. . .