Twilight

She had tiptoed through many an awkward interrogation, smooth-talked her way around deep suspicions in the past, but she was out of practice, and no one she had ever encountered was as deeply distrustful as these kids clearly were. How had she ever imagined that she could blithely waltz in here and demand answers? The past few minutes had shown her the folly of that thinking.

When an awkward silence fell, Rick stepped in. “You guys can spend time with Mrs. Miller later. We have a few things to take care of first in my office.”

Dana knew he was right to hustle her along, to give them time to absorb the idea of her presence, but she hated the prospect of even so minor a delay. Still, she said her goodbyes and dutifully followed him to the open door on which his name had been painted by the same artistic hand that had inscribed it on the wall out back.

When they walked inside, a beautiful, dark-haired teen looked up from the piles of paper in front of her, started to say something, saw Dana and gaped. She had barely recovered when Rick’s introduction had her gaping again.

“You are the padre’s esposa? I mean, his wife?”

There was such awe and reverence in the girl’s voice that Dana could do no more than nod.

“This is Maria Consuela Villanueva,” Rick said. “She keeps things in order around here.”

Dana surveyed the chaos doubtfully.

“I know, señora,” Maria said with a shrug, “it does not look as if I have achieved much, but you should have seen it before I came.”

Dana could not imagine it being worse than it was now. File folders lined the walls in stacks that were waist high. There were no file cabinets to hold them. A rickety table in the corner held a coffeemaker, a mismatched assortment of mugs and some sort of pastries. All of it looked ready to topple to the floor if so much as a breeze stirred.

Then there was the general decor. It seemed to Dana as if someone had gotten a deal on seconds at the paint store. The old metal desk with its fresh coat of bright red paint looked incongruous against the buttercup-yellow walls. The backbreaking metal chair in which Maria sat was a vivid blue. Even the trash can had received a coat of new paint—lime-green.

“Who’s your decorator?” Dana inquired.

“That would be Maria,” Rick said with obvious pride. “She thought it was too dull around here before.”

“It was gray,” Maria said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Everything gray. It was enough to make a person depressed.”

Dana glanced at Rick. “I assume the gray had been your choice.”

“No, it was here when we took over the building from the county. Institutional gray. Very bland and nonthreatening.”

“And your office? Did you allow Maria to change the decor in there? Or were you happy with your bland environment?”

Rick opened the door. “See for yourself.”

Dana stepped inside and promptly had to hide a chuckle. His walls were fire-engine-red, his desk yellow. His chair was lime-green. Those for his guests were a startling shade of purple.

“It’s very...” She hesitated, then settled for “...bright.”

“Cheerful, yes?” Maria said, gazing around the room happily. “Everyone helped. We did it as a surprise.”

Dana searched Rick’s face. “And were you surprised?”

“Stunned is more like it,” he muttered. “I’d really grown rather fond of that gray.”

“Too boring,” Maria said, ignoring his plaintive expression. “This is better. People leave this room feeling happy.”

“Or dizzy,” Rick countered.

Maria’s brow crinkled worriedly. “You hate it?”

Dana waited to see just how diplomatic Rick Sanchez could be when the situation required tact. Sure enough, he reached out and gave Maria’s hand a quick squeeze.

“It’s a beautiful office,” he reassured her. “Everyone who comes here says so.”

She gave a nod of satisfaction. “We could do something wonderful with your apartment, too, if you would just allow us.” She glanced at Dana. “Beige, floor to ceiling, nothing but beige and brown. It is worse than the gray, I think. It feels as if you are already in your grave with the dirt closing in.”

Dana shuddered at the imagery.

“It is not beige,” Rick protested. “It’s Navajo-white. I picked it out myself.”

“Call it what you like. I know beige when I see it. And the carpet is brown, yes? And the sofa? And that disgusting chair you love so much?”

Rick threw up his hands. “Okay, yes. But I’m not wasting money to change any of it. It’s livable. Besides, I’m never there.”

“True enough,” Maria agreed, “especially since...” A warning glance from Rick silenced her. “Never mind. Would you like coffee, Señora Miller?”

Dana shook her head.

“Okay, then. I will leave you to your meeting.” She retreated hurriedly.

Dana had listened to the exchange with fascination. She had watched the casual, affectionate teasing and wondered if there was more to their relationship than boss and secretary. Maria seemed to know an awful lot about Rick’s home.

“If she’s not crazy about your decor at home, maybe you should let her change it,” Dana said when Maria was gone.

Rick stared at her blankly. “Why would I do that?”

“If you expect her to spend any time there...”

Rick’s immediate chuckle stopped any further speculation. “My, my, you do have a vivid imagination, don’t you? I thought private detectives were supposed to look for evidence, not jump to conclusions.”

“In this case, the facts add up.”

“What facts?”

“She’s a beautiful young woman. You’re a healthy male. Both of you are single and unattached. She knows exactly what your apartment looks like, so obviously she’s spent time there.”

His gaze locked with hers. “I am a healthy male,” he confirmed softly. The mood suddenly shifted as he stepped closer. “You’re a beautiful widow.” One finger stroked lightly, provocatively along her jaw. “I know exactly what your house looks like, so obviously I’ve spent time there.”

Dana swallowed hard, but she couldn’t seem to make herself look away. She knew he was just trying to make a point, but she was too caught up in unexpected sensations to reason out what it was.

“So, Ms. Private Detective, would you say you and I are having an affair?”

She should have anticipated it, but she hadn’t. The taunting, softly spoken suggestion shocked her. Dana scowled at him, even as a traitorous tingle of awareness and anticipation shot through her. She forced herself not to back away, not to show any sign at all that he had shaken her with that slight caress.

“Touché,” she said, her voice husky and uneven, despite her best efforts. “Sometimes the facts may not add up.”

“Maybe it would be best if you and I stick to the things we can prove,” he suggested, his tone astonishingly casual considering the level of electricity that had been humming through the air just seconds before.

Dana could only nod.

“Have you thought about what you’d like to do here?” he asked as if the conversation up until that moment had been about nothing more consequential than the weather.

For once, she was grateful for the quick change of subject. “Poke through the files,” she said readily.

“I meant with the kids.”

She sighed. “You’re really going to make me go through with this, aren’t you?”

“It’s part of the deal. Reading, cooking, sewing, whatever. It’s up to you.”

She thought over the choices he’d offered and rejected all of them. She wanted something that would potentially reveal more of their personalities. “How about photography?” she said impulsively. “I have some experience with that.” Of course most of it had been snapping shots of errant husbands in the arms of the other woman. She supposed she could translate that and her two formal classes into an impromptu course of some sort.

Rick looked doubtful. “I don’t know.”

His lack of enthusiasm only fueled hers. “Why not? It’s a skill that they might be able to use.”

“But to get the equipment they’ll need, they might resort to theft,” he said realistically. “We can’t afford to buy the digital cameras.”

Dana wasn’t sure whether it was real enthusiasm for the idea or just plain perversity that made her say, “I have several old cameras at home and I can pay for the supplies.”

“You would trust these kids with your cameras?”

His doubting expression had her hesitating, but only for an instant. She didn’t want him to think she wasn’t willing to put herself on the line in exchange for the information she so desperately wanted. “Until they give me reason not to,” she said firmly.

A grin spread across his face. “Well, well, Mrs. Miller, now you’re beginning to sound just a little like your husband. There may be hope for you yet.”

The hard-won, if somewhat mocking, compliment pleased her more than it should have. She forced an indifferent shrug. “One small step at a time. What should we do? Put up an announcement of some kind?”

“Just set a time for the start of classes and tell Maria. Believe me, word will get around.”

“And if no one shows up, do we still have a deal?”

He shook his head. “You have to win them over. That was the deal. If photography doesn’t work, I guess you’ll just have to come up with something else, won’t you?”

The challenge was unmistakable. Dana resolved then and there that she would make the photography class work. She would teach these kids the skills they would need to take first-rate snapshots. Maybe, with a little luck, she’d even find one who could become a professional. Catching herself, she realized she was actually getting carried away. She saw how easy it was to become excited about possibilities.

She was also, once again, getting distracted. She eyed Rick suspiciously. Was that what he really intended? Had he hoped that she would get so caught up with these kids, so emotionally attached to them, that she’d forget all about the little matter of identifying her husband’s murderer?

“It won’t work,” she said quietly.

“What won’t work?”

“I won’t forget about Ken’s death. I won’t drop the investigation.”

His unblinking gaze stayed level with hers. “Never thought you would.”

Either he was being straight with her, or he was a masterful liar. It was too soon to lay odds on which.

“When do you want to get started?” he asked.

“The sooner the better, but I’ll need my equipment.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

She nodded. “I’ll be here first thing in the morning.”

“Better wait till afternoon. These kids are supposed to be in school in the morning,” he said dryly.

“But those in there—”

“Dropped out or were suspended. We’re working on getting them reenrolled. I don’t want to reward them by offering a special class in the morning. Make it four o’clock. That way, more kids will be here and I’ll have time to get some work done before I come out to pick you up and bring you in.”

“That’s not necessary. I can drive myself in.”

He shook his head. “I thought we’d settled that. On my turf, I make the rules.”

“I’m not one of your strays.”

“No, but you are here because I’ve made it possible,” he reminded her in a way that reaffirmed who held the power.

“It’s a public building,” she countered defiantly.

“You think you can get these old bricks to talk, go right ahead and try,” he retorted smoothly.

Dana sighed. “Okay, you’ve made your point. Four o’clock will be fine. Am I expected to sit in the corner until you’re free, or are you taking me home now?”

“No, I am not taking you home now. I’m taking you to lunch. You’ve lost too much weight. You’re obviously not eating.”

“How would you know a thing like that? You’ve never seen me before today.”

Before she realized what he intended, he reached out and snagged a chunk of material at her waist and tugged. There was at least an inch or better to spare.

“Evidence, Dana. Solid, irrefutable evidence.”

“Maybe I just like to wear my clothes loose.”

He grinned. “Give it up. You’re not going to win. Ken was very proud of your fashion sense. He often wished he could persuade you to teach these girls a thing or two about style.”

He had expressed the same wish to her on several occasions, but she had always dismissed the idea with one excuse or another. She had never realized that he’d shared those thoughts with Rick.

“He said you were too busy with other commitments,” Rick said, though it was clear he hadn’t bought the excuses.

“Okay, okay. Maybe I have lost a couple of pounds,” she conceded. “I haven’t felt much like eating.”

“Today you will,” he assured her. “I’m going to stuff you with black beans and rice, maybe a few enchiladas, maybe a taco or two.”

Despite herself, her mouth was watering. “Spicy?” she asked.

“If that’s the way you want them.”

“Is there any other way?”

He nodded approvingly. “See there, you and I do have one thing in common.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she warned.

“Hey, I’ve always believed that the path to victory was to find the first little chink in your opponent’s armor.”

“Is that what we are? Opponents?”

“Aren’t we?”

For some reason that she didn’t care to explore too closely, Dana suddenly regretted the accuracy of his assessment, but she couldn’t dispute it.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I suppose that is exactly what we are.”

It was too bad, too. What she was in desperate need of these days was an ally.

7

Rick leaned back in the booth at Tico’s and studied the woman opposite him. He’d waited for disdain to fill her eyes all morning, first when she had met the kids at Yo, Amigo and minutes ago, when they had entered the tiny, unpretentious neighborhood restaurant. So far, she had surprised him.

She had been polite, if guarded, with the teenagers. Inside the door of Tico’s, she had drawn in a deep breath, and a positively rapturous expression had crossed her face. Once they’d found an available booth in the crowded room, she had grabbed the typed, laminated menu eagerly. For five minutes after that she had pestered him with questions about unfamiliar items.

She had ordered with such abandon that even the unflappable Tico had been startled. She would be stunned to discover that her meal would be enough to stuff a truck driver. Tico’s place might not be much for atmosphere, but he never stinted on his portions, especially not for a customer who demonstrated so much enthusiasm. Rick had had to hide his amusement at his friend’s bemused expression.

What a complex woman Dana Miller was, he thought, a little bemused himself as he watched her. This side of her was far too alluring, far too dangerous, when he was already having difficulty resisting the effect she had on his body.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you that it’s not polite to stare?” she inquired, squirming just a little under his gaze.

He liked knowing that he could rattle her. “Not that I can recall,” he said, enjoying her uneasiness. She had caught him totally off-guard the night before. He figured it was only fair that he return the favor. “I don’t think it applied to circumstances like this, anyway.”

She regarded him quizzically. “And what circumstances would these be?”

“Two people each trying to figure out what makes the other one tick.”

“Is that what you’re trying to do?”

Rick smiled. “Aren’t you?”

“I already know what makes you tick, Mr. Sanchez,” she said with evident bitterness. “You have a passion for just one thing—that program that you have poured your heart and soul into.”

It was essentially true, but Rick was vaguely insulted just the same. No man liked to hear himself described as so one-dimensional. “You see no more in me than that?”

“Is there more?”

“Maybe we should let you discover my other passions as we go,” he said softly, and watched the color climb into her cheeks.

The taunt came as naturally as breathing, before he could stop himself. It drew a spark of pure fire in her eyes that intrigued him, despite his best intentions. Dana Miller was a woman with passions of her own. Whatever they might be, though, they were off-limits to him. Honoring his friendship to Ken demanded it.

“This isn’t personal between us,” she said, her teeth clenched.

“Oh, no? You blame me for the death of your husband. You want to destroy something I love, something I’ve worked hard the past few years to get off the ground. I’d say that makes it pretty personal, Dana.”

“I meant—”

He couldn’t resist trying to shock her. “You meant there would be no sex, isn’t that right?”

The pink in her cheeks deepened. “How crude of you to put it so bluntly.”

“I don’t waste a lot of time dancing around the obvious, if that’s what you mean.” He leaned forward. “As for the sex, I think it’s a little too soon to rule anything out.”

She glared at him. “You are every bit as despicable as I’d imagined, Mr. Sanchez. My husband is—”

“Dead,” he reminded her, then cursed himself when the color washed out of her face. “I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it. “I should never have said that.”

“I think we should go now,” she said, her eyes shadowed with unbearable pain. “I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.”

Rick wondered only briefly whether he should accede to her wishes. Perhaps if she remained very angry with him, if she thoroughly despised him, she would stay away from Yo, Amigo, after all. He knew better, though. She wouldn’t allow anything—not even her dislike of him—to get in her way. She might avoid him, but she would be back.

He met her gaze squarely. “Suit yourself, but my appetite is just fine, and I’m not about to let Tico’s food go to waste.”

Their meal arrived as if on cue, plates loaded down with fragrant, spicy concoctions that blended meat and cheese and chili peppers in ways that fast-food chains had never imagined. As furious as Dana was with him, she eyed the plates avidly. He wondered if she would be stubborn enough to leave the food untouched to spite him.

For a moment or two, she did exactly that, hands folded primly in her lap, her chin tilted defiantly, her gaze fixed on some distant point beyond him.

But as he continued to eat, slowly and deliberately savoring each mouthful, he could see her wavering. Finally, with a soft sigh of resignation, she picked up her fork.

She took one tiny, tentative bite at first, still resisting the idea of enjoying her meal. That bite was quickly followed by another, larger one, and then another.

“Oh, my,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “This is heavenly.”

Rick grinned. “See, not even I can ruin the taste of Tico’s enchiladas.”

She ignored the comment. “Do you think he would give me the recipe? What’s in this mole sauce? How many chilis?”

“I have no idea, and I doubt if he’d tell you. I think he would rather you came here often,” Rick said, and immediately regretted his own foolhardiness. He was practically begging to make things more personal, more intimate between them. How many meals could they share without the undeniable sparks between them leading to something neither of them wanted? Her violent response to his taunting comment just moments earlier proved that she was not half as immune to him as she wanted to be. No doubt she believed that such a significant spark of attraction made a mockery of her mourning, whereas he believed it was simply a life force exerting its pull.

“For more of this,” she said, holding up a forkful of savory meat, “I would spend time with the devil himself.”

For one brief second, Dana Miller was just an attractive, intelligent woman, a woman whom his body responded to, even when his head told him nothing could ever come of it. There were depths to her that it would be fascinating to explore, depths he would never know. That being the case, it was better to remind them both of why they were together at all.

“Ken always loved it here, too,” he said.

Rather than pain at the mention of her husband’s name, though, something soft and wondering lit her eyes. “He came here?”

It was as if he’d offered her an unexpected connection to the man she had lost. “Often,” Rick said. “He loved the food and the people. Tico was one of our first success stories when we began four years ago.”

Astonishment spread across her face. “Tico was in a gang?”

“He led one of the gangs,” Rick corrected, then added somberly, “until one of the members of his own gang killed his little brother, claiming he was a snitch.”

She gasped at that. “How horrible!”

“But out of that tragedy came some good. Tico was ready to listen to what Yo, Amigo had to say, to what Ken had to say. His mother was an excellent cook. Tico took her recipes and began to experiment with them. He fixed several suppers for everyone at Yo, Amigo. Everyone was wildly enthusiastic. Ken found a few people in the restaurant business, invited them over one night and, after tasting some of Tico’s wizardry with Mexican food, they came up with the money to back this place.”

“It was a wise investment, wasn’t it?” Dana asked.

Rick nodded. “He repaid all of the loans in the first year and he’s been in the black ever since. Four of his younger brothers and sisters work here now. His mother comes in to act as hostess in the evening. It’s truly a family enterprise.”

“You must be very proud,” she said with obvious sincerity.

“Not me. Ken had the foresight to see what Tico could be. I was worried only about getting him off the streets. It takes more than that. I can rescue kids every day. I can talk until I’m blue in the face about opportunity and dreams and success. It takes people like Ken to make them a reality, to keep these kids from drifting back to their old ways. Your husband offered more than a moral compass. He offered hope.”

He met her gaze evenly. “Can you see now that even though my loss is very different from yours, it runs just as deep?”

He could see the struggle in her eyes, the unwillingness to acknowledge that he might be suffering because of Ken’s death, just as she was. Eventually, though, she was too honest to lie, even to herself.

“I think I’m beginning to see that,” she conceded, albeit grudgingly. “But don’t you see that it was because of that very need you had for him that he’s dead?”

Ah, Rick thought, there was the rub. He fought that acknowledgment, denied it. When he did allow it, he could see his responsibility so clearly it kept him awake nights.

“I’m sorry,” he told her once more. “But even if I’d known what the outcome was going to be, I wouldn’t have stopped him from coming. Yo, Amigo, the kids there, kids like Tico, needed him.”

“So did I,” she said fervently, visibly choking back a sob.

Rick reached across the table and took her hand in his. It was cold as ice, but she didn’t pull away.

“I know, Dana,” he told her quietly. “I know.”

She wasn’t through with him yet, though. “Because of you, my kids will grow up without a father.”

He could have told her there were plenty of kids here in the barrio who would grow up without a father, as well, but it would have brought her no comfort. He thought of her going home to that empty, silent house in the suburbs and, for once, he didn’t envy the life she and so many others had.

Once, not so very long ago, he would have dismissed her as an uncaring, pampered housewife. He had kept that opinion to himself, even when Ken had sung her praises and ignored her shortcomings. Now he was glad that he had. She had loved her husband and her kids. With her misguided notion that she could insulate them from the world, she had wanted nothing more than to protect them. How could he fault her for that? It was exactly what he wanted for so many others.

“I’ll take you home now,” he said at last.

From the despondent look in her eyes, he suddenly realized that it was a trip neither of them was looking forward to.