Like No One Else. Maureen Smith

Tommie entered her bedroom and flicked on a Tiffany floor lamp that cast a soft, golden glow over the room. She crossed to the large window, and with only a passing glance into the dark night, she drew the curtains closed. As she started toward the bathroom, she shook her hair free of its ponytail and peeled off her skirt, leggings, and leotard, dropping them to the floor as she went. She’d take a hot shower, then hit the sack.

      It wasn’t the exciting life she’d led in New York. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

      But for the first time ever, Tommie felt like she was finally in control of her life. She determined the number of clients she took on, she dictated the days and times her classes were held, she set her own fee schedule.

      She answered to no one but herself.

      And after everything she’d been through, being able to control her own destiny beat the hell out of exciting any day of the week.

      Standing in the shadow of a giant oak across the street from the small brick building, the stranger watched Tommie Purnell’s silhouette in the bedroom window. He’d timed his arrival to coincide with her nightly ritual of showering before bedtime.

      When the light went on in the room, his muscles had tightened. And then she’d appeared in the window, beautiful and alluring, and a hot rush of anticipation slid through his veins. When she glanced briefly outside, he’d huddled closer to the tree, although he knew she wouldn’t see him.

      Not yet. It wasn’t time.

      Closing his eyes, he imagined her undressing herself, slowly and seductively because she knew she had a captive audience. He saw the smooth, supple curves of her voluptuous body, her hair tumbling down her back in a rainfall of dark brown. In his mind’s eye she looked over her shoulder at him, her pouty lips curving in a sultry smile, her dark eyes beckoning invitingly to him. He imagined joining her in the steamy shower and pinning her against the tiled wall, her nails digging into his shoulders, her long legs wrapped around his waist, her head thrown back to expose her throat and those large, slick breasts as he rammed into her.

      He shuddered at the vivid image, his cock stiffening inside his pants, his blood heating. How he would have loved to cross the narrow street and sneak into the old building, to climb the stairs to the second-story loft and let himself inside. He wanted to roam around her apartment, touching her things, drinking in her scent that lingered in the air. And when she emerged from the shower, he wanted to be there waiting for her. Waiting to strike.

      And he would.

      But not tonight.

      Tonight he would savor the thrill of setting his plan in motion, knowing it was just the beginning….

      Chapter 4

      It was after ten o’clock by the time Paulo steered his police cruiser through the tall iron gate that guarded the palatial residence of Ignacio and Naomi Santiago. The sprawling Mediterranean-style villa boasted stone columns, second-story balconies, a wraparound veranda, and lush, manicured gardens. The property was situated on five heavily wooded acres in River Oaks, home to Houston’s wealthy elite.

      Paulo followed the curve of the flagstone driveway and parked in front of the mansion. He took the stone steps three at a time, but just as he reached the massive front door, it swung open to reveal Naomi Santiago peering out anxiously at him.

      At age sixty-five Naomi didn’t look a day over forty, with her smooth mahogany skin, chic haircut, and trim figure. Whether she was decked out in Chanel or sporting her favorite faded jeans—as she was now—she’d always struck Paulo as having the proud, regal bearing of a queen. And what’s more, she had a heart of gold to match.

      She took one look at Paulo’s grim expression and lifted a trembling hand to her mouth. “Oh my God,” she breathed. “I was hoping it was a terrible mistake. So it is true. Maribel Cruz is dead.”

      Paulo hesitated, then nodded. “I’m sorry, Naomi.”

      As tears flooded her dark eyes, Paulo drew her into his arms. Even as a child he’d hated to see his cousin Naomi cry. Once when he and Rafe were seven, they’d inadvertently gotten separated from the rest of the family at a crowded amusement park. Rafe’s parents had been frantic with worry, locating the missing boys after a desperate search that had lasted two hours. The sight of Naomi Santiago’s haggard, tearstained face had made Paulo feel worse than any punishment he and Rafe could ever have received. And they’d received plenty.

      “I can’t believe it,” Naomi whispered, her words muffled against Paulo’s chest. “How could this have happened? Who’d want to hurt Maribel?”

      “That’s what I intend to find out,” Paulo murmured, though he knew better than to make any promises to her. But it was so damned tempting. After all, this was the woman who’d always been like a second mother to him, bandaging his scraped elbows and knees, nursing him through colds with the same love and affection she’d showered upon her own children. It was no wonder that Paulo’s first instinct was to assure her that Maribel Cruz’s killer would be caught and brought to justice, even though the cop in him knew it was rarely as simple as that.

      After several moments Naomi pulled back and took Paulo’s hand, drawing him into the warm house. The entrance hall was massive, with a vaulted ceiling that soared over imported Italian tile floors. The scents from the gardens spilled in to mingle with the perfume of the flowers that had been arranged indoors.

      “Where’s Ignacio?” Paulo asked.

      “On the phone in his study. People have been calling nonstop ever since we learned what happened. News travels fast.” Naomi sniffled, absently reaching up to brush Paulo’s hair off his forehead. A soft, tremulous smile touched her mouth. “You need a haircut.”

      “I know,” Paulo murmured, smiling a little. Even now, Naomi couldn’t stop herself from mothering him.

      “Have you eaten?”

      “Yeah.” And because he knew she would ask, he added, “I had lasagna. Homemade.”

      Naomi arched a finely sculpted brow. “Whose?”

      Paulo was spared from answering when Ignacio Santiago appeared in the entryway. He was a tall, powerfully built man, well used to taking control, be it in business or family matters. His thick brown hair had turned mostly gray, and his olive complexion came courtesy of his Mexican father, who, like Ignacio, had married a beautiful African-American woman.

      Ignacio’s piercing whiskey-colored eyes settled unerringly on Paulo. When he spoke, his voice was a deep, rich baritone that resonated with authority. “Good, you’re here. Now we can start getting some answers.”

      Paulo grimaced. “You know I can only tell you guys so much without compromising the investigation.”

      “We understand,” Naomi said, tucking her arm companionably through Paulo’s. “Let’s talk in the living room. Would you like something to drink? I could ask Lydia to bring you some coffee or sweet tea.”

      “No, thanks. I’m good.”

      “Are you sure?”

      “Positive. And if I change my mind, I know where the kitchen is.”

      Naomi returned Paulo’s smile as they followed Ignacio from the foyer.

      New visitors to the house always remarked on the sheer elegance of the furnishings. The formal living room was a decorator’s dream, with its coffered ceiling, beautiful crown molding, priceless antiques, original artwork, and plush oriental carpeting. A cozy fire crackled in the marble fireplace, and on the wall above the mantel were family photographs framed in gold leaf.

      Paulo wandered over, absently studying the familiar gallery of photos. His lips quirked at a picture of him and Rafe dressed in their Little League uniforms and sporting wide, gap-toothed grins as they stood with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders. There were the obligatory portrait-studio photos, Ignacio and Naomi flanking their four young children against an