Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 63

CHAPTER 15.

Montoya, dressed in faded jeans, a black T-s.h.i.+rt, and a leather jacket, stretched out of his vehicle. He slammed the door and pressed a b.u.t.ton on his key ring. The sleek car chirped and blinked its lights but Abby focused on the man.

His jeans were tight, his face set, his black hair falling over his forehead as he jogged toward the front steps. Stupidly, her heart fluttered. "G.o.d help me."

Oh, Abby, don't be an idiot. Do not not go there. go there.

She swung the door open before he pressed the b.u.t.ton for the bell. Hershey bounded out, wiggling and wagging her tail, begging for attention. Yeah, some watchdog the Lab turned out to be.

"Expecting someone?" Montoya asked, and though there was a tension to his face, a bit of a grin flashed in his beard. The man possessed white, white teeth and a crooked smile, the kind, she supposed, that could melt a woman's heart. He took the time to bend on one knee and pet the dog, who responded by demanding more and more attention, wiggling and grunting in pure pleasure.

"Just you, Detective," she said, aware of the sense of relief she felt at the sight of him. Her nerves definitely needed soothing. And maybe she was just one of those stupid women who were hung up on tough-looking guys, men with an edge, who, if you observed a little more closely, had a twinkle in their eyes and a soft spot in their hearts.

Oh, for the love of G.o.d! What kind of ludicrous thought was that? Montoya is a detective. Period. He's working on Luke's homicide. End of story.

Yet as he offered up that smile again, s.e.xy and boyish at the same time, his dark eyes seductive and naughty, she experienced a warm rush in her bloodstream. So there was a fun guy beneath the tough detective facade. Knowing Montoya had a sense of humor was even more dangerous. The last thing she needed in her life right now was a man, and of all the men walking this planet, Detective Reuben Montoya would be the worst choice for her.

A cop?

No way.

A homicide detective?

Even worse!

Get real, Abby.

And who are you to even think about choosing a man? The last one you were serious about just got murdered, remember?

"You were expecting me?" he asked. "Is that why you came to the door armed with a hammer."

"What? Oh. No . . . I was just taking out some nails." Not a lie. That's what she'd done earlier this morning. Quickly, she set the hammer onto a table near the doorway. As Hershey ambled into the house again, Montoya climbed to his feet. Light caught in his ebony black hair and along the slope of his chiseled cheekbones; she wondered what it would be like to kiss him. She focused on those thin lips partially hidden by the thick blackness of his goatee and something caught in the back of her throat. In her mind's eye she saw him not only kissing her, but touching her, his mouth and hands skimming her body.

Whoa! Abby, stop it!

She couldn't. As they stood in the warm glow of the porch light: he, on the porch; she, on the other side of the threshold, there was a sense of intimacy in the air. Her silly overactive imagination ran wild with fantasies of making love to him.

Which was just plain ridiculous.

"Are you here alone?" she asked, though she was pretty certain of the answer. She stood on her tiptoes and peered over his shoulder, as if looking for a second cop.

"Flyin' solo tonight."

"What, no suave and debonair partner?" she asked, folding her arms over her chest. As if to protect her heart.

Montoya's grin was pure animal. "You're talking about Brinkman?"

"Such a gentleman," she said sarcastically. "He must win points with the women he works with."

"Not a lot."

"Big surprise, so where is is my buddy tonight?" she asked, knowing she was flirting and unable to stop. my buddy tonight?" she asked, knowing she was flirting and unable to stop.

Montoya lifted a leather-clad shoulder. "Probably out irritating the populace and giving the department a bad name," he said. She looked surprised at his candor, and he added, "Okay, so he's a good cop. I trust his instincts. He's got my back, but hey, I do know the guy. Let's just say Brinkman and I, we don't bowl together."

She laughed, the tension of the night draining from her.

"I don't think I should be telling you this. It could get me into trouble."

"And that would worry you?" She didn't believe it, sensed that Reuben Montoya might thrive on stepping over the line for an occasional walk on the wild side.

"Not a lot. No."

"I figured as much." She stepped out of the doorway, silently inviting him inside. "So, Detective-"

"You can call me Reuben," he said.

"Does anyone?"

He chuckled. "Only my mother."

"And the rest?"

"Aside from my aunt, who insists on calling me Pedro because of my confirmation name, and my brothers and sisters who refer to me as Reu, everyone refers to me as Montoya."

"That'll work," she said. Less personal. "So, Montoya, you are here for a reason, whether official or not." She pushed the door closed. "You want to tell me about it?"

He nodded, following her inside. Looking at the cozy living room with its Tiffany lamps, antiques, and overstuffed furniture, Abby decided she could think more clearly under brighter lights, maybe the dining room or the kitchen . . .

"Is something burning?" he asked.

"Oh, d.a.m.n! No . . . not really!" She beelined into the kitchen and scared Ansel, who'd been hiding under the couch. The cat slunk into the dining room, looking furtively over his shoulder and letting out tiny little hisses. He hopped onto the seat of one of the chairs where, beneath the table, he could watch what was happening.

"Friendly," Montoya observed wryly.

"Ansel struggles with the concept of 'chill out.'" Again, Montoya's teeth flashed white against his black goatee and his brown eyes twinkled. "He's been a grouch ever since you brought Hershey here. Ansel's hoping the dog will somehow disappear. Or drop dead. That would work, too."

In the kitchen, Abby pointed at the freezer-burned pizza still sitting in its plastic wrapper on the counter. Her dinner. Which she'd planned to eat alone or with Hershey. Then there was the bottle of wine. Breathing invitingly on the counter. She hesitated before deciding to quit second-guessing herself. "I was making dinner, such as it is, before you showed up. It's . . . well, it's pretty d.a.m.ned pathetic, but . . . would you like to join me?" She felt a flush climb up the back of her neck and felt as silly as she had all those years ago when she'd impulsively asked Trey Hilliard to the Sadie Hawkins dance.

Montoya picked up the bottle of red table wine, smiled as he read the label. "I'm off duty," he remarked, looking up at her with those incredibly s.e.xy brown eyes. "Best offer I've had all day."

"Really?" She couldn't help chuckling as she fished out a couple of winegla.s.ses. "Geez, Montoya, you might want to rethink your life."

"Don't worry, I have." He poured the wine as she unwrapped the pizza. She opened a packet of pregrated Italian cheeses, the can of chopped olives, then quickly sliced the tomato and onion. "So," she said, sprinkling the cheese over the dry pepperoni, "about the reason you're here." She added the chopped onion and olives onto the top of the fresh cheese, then slid her beefed-up concoction into the oven. "Why do I have the feeling that you've come with more bad news?"

"Is there any other kind?"

"I used to think so," she admitted. "Now I'm not so sure, and the fact that you're here at nearly nine at night doesn't bode well, does it?"

"I guess not." He handed her a gla.s.s, took a sip from his own before resting a slim hip on her kitchen stool. As he did, his jacket fell open, showing the b.u.t.t of the gun in his shoulder holster, and Abby was reminded that, first and foremost, Detective Reuben Montoya was a cop. He could sip wine, laugh, turn on the s.e.xy twinkle in his eyes, even pet her dog as if he loved chocolate Labs to death, but he was still a homicide detective investigating the death of her ex-husband, a man who might still believe she was involved.

"So far, Detective, all you've brought with you is not only bad, but also disturbing news. What's on your mind?"

"Asa Pomeroy," he said and set his gla.s.s on the counter.

"What about him?"

"Haven't you been watching the news?"

She felt it then, that first premonition of dread. The sensation of relief that had been with her for the past ten minutes drained away. "No, I've been working. Alone in the studio." She hitched her chin toward the back door, then took a calming sip of the wine, which was surprisingly smooth. "I haven't even turned on the radio. What happened?"

"He's missing."

"Missing?" The little bit of worry grew. "Asa? My neighbor?"

"Since last night."

"You suspect foul play," she said and the world seemed to get just a little bleaker. If a man as rich and powerful as Asa wasn't safe, who was? No, no, her thinking was off. It was because of the wealth and influence of Pomeroy Industries that he was a target.

"We're not certain of exactly what happened, but since he's a neighbor of yours, I thought I'd stop and see that you were okay."

"Fine," she said. As the kitchen began to fill with the scents of melting cheese, warm tomato sauce, and baking onions, she thought fleetingly of the open window and the dog's growls and snarls.

"So there was no other reason that you were running around with a hammer?"

"I told you-"

"I know what you told me, but when you opened the door, you looked relieved to see me, and you were holding the hammer so hard the bones in your knuckles showed through your skin."

"You noticed all that?"

"I am am a detective," he said. She couldn't tell if he was ribbing her or deadly serious. Probably the latter, considering the fact that he was here to tell her about Asa. a detective," he said. She couldn't tell if he was ribbing her or deadly serious. Probably the latter, considering the fact that he was here to tell her about Asa.

"Okay, Detective, Detective, you caught me. The dog acted like someone might be in the house, so I checked things out." you caught me. The dog acted like someone might be in the house, so I checked things out."

"With a hammer as protection?"

"It was handy."

"But you have an alarm system, right?" He twisted his head to the window cut into the back door. The gold alarm sticker warned any and all intended intruders that the house was connected to the sheriff 's department.

"The house came this way. It's not wired to anything." She shrugged. "I'm not sure it ever was."

"Find out and connect it." All humor had left his face.

"You're serious?"

"Absolutely. As I said, we're not certain what happened to Pomeroy, but it doesn't look good." He gave her as much information as he had, and she listened in stunned silence. Both Asa and his car had vanished the night before, and it appeared as if there were some signs of a struggle at the gate to his estate. When the maid arrived in the morning, the automatic lock wasn't working. The police thought he'd probably been abducted and the FBI was already involved.

"All this happened right down the road?" she clarified, though she knew the answer.

"That's right. There's a chance that Asa could have just taken off and told no one where he was going, but it seems unlikely. All of the law enforcement agencies are involved, local, state, and as I said, the FBI."

"Because he's wealthy?" she asked. "That doesn't seem right."

"It isn't. But Pomeroy's high-profile and he owns property all over the South. His business is headquartered in New Orleans, but he's got warehouses and factories in Alabama, Texas, even as far away as Georgia. And there's a chance he might have been taken across state lines, we're not sure yet, but all the agencies are on alert. I work Homicide, and there's no evidence that Pomeroy's dead. But he's definitely missing. Since I've been to your house before, I volunteered to come and warn you and find out if you've heard or seen anything suspicious in the neighborhood."

"But you're off duty," she clarified again.

"That's right."

"So someone else could still come over . . . officially."

"Maybe. Depends on what shakes down. So tell me what you've seen or heard. It doesn't have to be something blatant, just something that caught your attention."

"I don't know. Nothing." She managed to find an oven mitt, but she was stunned, had trouble absorbing everything he'd told her. She opened the oven door and a cloud of spicy heat escaped. Carefully she slid the pizza from the oven. Melted cheese bubbled and dripped over the edges of the crust as she slid the pie onto a plate.

She thought about the times she'd been by the Pomeroy estate, either in her car or on foot. "I don't remember anything odd or suspicious," she said. "When I drive to my office, I go by there twice a day, once into town, once out." Scavenging in a drawer, she came up with a dull pizza cutter. Using all her strength, she pushed hard on the handle and forced the circular blade to slice the pie into eighths. "Then, I jog past the gates when I'm taking my run, but that's been spotty lately. Have you checked with the Stinsons? They live right across the street. Asa and Mark know each other through some kind of flying club, I think. They both have airplanes. Vanessa and Celia Stinson play bridge or golf together."

"Someone's already spoken with them. We're talking to everyone Asa knows."

"That'll take a while."

"No kiddin'."

She arranged the sliced tomatoes, found plates and a spatula, then set two pieces of pizza onto each small platter. Handing one to Montoya, she took the stool next to his but ignored the food. After hours of her stomach begging her for something to eat, she was suddenly not hungry. To think that Asa Pomeroy could have been abducted, only a few hundred feet down the road, was bone-chilling. Pomeroy's disappearance coupled with Luke and Courtney LaBelle's murder killed her appet.i.te.

"So you came here to find out what I knew about Asa Pomeroy or if I'd seen anything," she stated, not adding, under the guise of caring. under the guise of caring.

Stupid woman!

Montoya met the questions in her eyes. "I came here to warn you," he said, lifting a slice and taking a bite. "And to make certain you were safe."

A cold feeling settled at the base of her spine. "I don't even know Asa Pomeroy."

He nodded. "Tonight, that might be a good thing."

"I guess."

"Eat," he suggested. "It's good."

"It can't be."

He poured more wine and she finally sampled the pizza. He was lying. It tasted like raw onions on cardboard, but she ate it anyway.