Triggered by Love Page 6

  She trailed off, so he used his free hand to knock.

  “Why Avery and Detective Burnett?” Mrs. Joan Bonet’s face shifted from pleasure to wary concern when she took in Jason’s presence. “Is everything okay?”

  Jason stood back while Avery entered. “I was at Miss Renzi’s place. She claims she’s okay, and I ran into Avery coming out of the elevator.”

  Mrs. Bonet whisked Avery inside and said, “Come in, Detective.”

  “I’ll just set these on your table,” Jason said. “I don’t mean to intrude.”

  “Oh, I’m sure we have plenty for you, don’t we, Ave? Do you mind if Detective Burnett joins us? I know him from the investigation.”

  Avery had the caught-with-a-hand-in-the-cookie-jar expression on her pretty face, although Jason wasn’t sure why she’d look so guilty.

  Before she could answer, Joan said, “He might have more information about, you know.”

  He set the food on the table, aware of Avery’s gaze burning on his face. “Uh, Mrs. Bonet, I can’t stay. I was responding to a call next door, and I’m still on duty.”

  “Did you catch the guy hurting Miss Renzi?” Mrs. Bonet filled a glass of water from her refrigerator water dispenser and handed it to him.

  “No. She wasn’t forthcoming with information.”

  “That’s too bad,” Mrs. Bonet said. “Such a lovely girl. And she’s a therapist too. She should know better.”

  “Joan, maybe we shouldn’t talk about Tatiana’s business,” Avery said. “She might have a good reason not to press charges.”

  “There are no good reasons,” Mrs. Bonet declared hotly. “I’ll speak to Tatiana again. It pains me that she counsels clients with anger management problems but lets this go.”

  “It’s her private life,” Avery said.

  “Sounds like she doesn’t follow her own advice,” Jason cut in. “You mentioned she’s a therapist?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly it,” Mrs. Bonet said. “It’s frustrating, but she won’t deal with it. I hear the violence, and I see the results. She’s a good girl, and my heart breaks for her.”

  “Is it always the same man?” Jason didn’t know why he pumped for more information. Actually, he did. He was just as pissed off at men who hurt women as Mrs. Bonet was. Actually, he hated bullies of all sorts.

  “I can’t be sure, but yes, I believe it’s that man with the Italian suits. He’s always wearing wraparounds, so it’s hard to identify him. He’s average height, build, Caucasian. Brown hair and nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Have I run into him before?” Avery asked.

  “I sure hope not,” Mrs. Bonet huffed.

  Jason’s phone rang. “Sorry, ladies. I have to take this call.”

  They excused him, and he left Joan’s apartment. It was his partner, and he wanted Jason to meet him to go over the forensic report of a crime they were investigating.

  “You talking to a therapist yet?” Blade reminded Jason of his threat. He’d already gone on several investigations with his partner without making progress.

  “Yeah, Tatiana Renzi, anger management. I’m calling her office for an appointment,” Jason replied. “Good enough for you?”

  Avery’s face was hot when she peeled off her linen suit jacket. The summer heat permeated into the minimally air-conditioned building. Joan’s apartment was part of a turn of the twentieth century brownstone without central air, and the noisy window units were anything but adequate.

  At least that was Avery’s explanation for why she felt so hot, and it had nothing to do with the detective’s brash and direct manners or the guilt swarming her from her last encounter. She should never forget he saved her life, and instead, she punched him and told him off. She should show her gratitude, but at the same time, it might encourage him, and how then would she resist his raw animal magnetism and the penetrating way he looked at her?

  Flustered and jumpy, she washed her hands and grabbed cutlery from the kitchen drawer. “I brought your favorite lasagna and a cool iceberg lettuce salad. My brother cut into the casserole.”

  “Don’t worry. There’s quite enough for both of us and that young detective.” Joan embraced Avery in a warm hug that lasted a few moments longer than motherly. When she finally let go, she asked, “Is something going on between you and Detective Burnett?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” Avery said. “He was investigating next door and ran into me in the hallway. Right before I knocked on your door, he grabbed the food because he didn’t want you to think he wasn’t a gentleman.”

  The edges of Joan’s lips turned down. “I suspected as much, but I had to be friendly in case he dug up any leads in, you know.”

  Recently, Avery and Joan had an agreement not to mention Brando’s name in reference to his murder, but to only focus on happier memories. Both of them had completely failed, of course, because any memory of Brando brought back the pain and anguish they’d piled up over the year of mourning him.

  “It’s a cold case and not a priority,” Avery said. “Let’s remember Brando’s last birthday. We took a trip to Montauk, the three of us.”

  “Ah, yes, the wild and wooly beach—so windblown in the winter,” Joan said.

  The conversation trailed off as Avery set the table and was ensconced in memories that left a bitter taste precisely because of how sweet and hopeful she’d been.

  Brando was the perfect boyfriend and for Joan, the perfect son. How was it possible to describe the loss? If he’d been inconsiderate or self-centered, or perhaps a little less thoughtful. If he’d not been the fearless hero who was always there when duty called. If he’d forgotten to call her and let her know he was safe, or if he’d been less appreciative of her or even tried to improve her with helpful suggestions …

  But no, he’d accepted her insecurities the way no one else had, and he’d come to her aid when she needed him and let her spread her wings when she was able to.

  If only she’d been more confident to do that last ramp walk alone.

  “Brando would have loved this lasagna.” Joan picked at her food, twirling the fork in the salad. “It’s hard to believe he’s been gone almost a year.”

  “Will you be okay coming to the fashion show?” Avery took in the sagging shadows underneath Joan’s eyes and general lack of energy.

  “I can’t wait.” Joan forced an edge of gaiety in her voice. “I’m so proud of Brando for inspiring your new line of menswear. Classic and heroic. So reminiscent of the clean lines of Cary Grant coupled with the athletic ruggedness of Clark Gable.”

  She sounded like she was reciting Alida’s ad copy instead of truly excited for Brando, and in a way, she was right to be devastated. How did anything, a tribute or dedication or posthumous award, make up for the absence of Brando’s hot vitality and the spirit and warmth he’d brought into their lives?

  “Every line I drew was inspired by Brando,” Avery said. “I’m not sure the critics will appreciate the return to masculinity. The coiled power behind the well-tailored fit. The ramrod straight spine, strong chest, and sturdy legs. It’ll either be make or break, but I don’t much care for the slouchy soft fabrics and the stretchy knits that pass for menswear these days.”

  “I agree,” Joan said staunchly. “How will you find models to portray Brando’s strength? I’m not sure you’d easily replicate the girth of his neck and fill out the shoulders.”

  She ran her finger over one of her illustrated posters of a tailored suit with an ascot around the neck and the splash of a rose buttoned on the sleek lapel.

  “Alida found someone with a big neck,” Avery said. “I’ll need to make a big splash this upcoming season, and he’s only available for Manhattan Fashion Week.”

  “Oh, why’s that?”

  “He’s a pro football player, and their season starts mid-September.” Too late, she recalled how Joan was an avid football fan before Brando’s death. “Maybe we can score tickets to their opening game. How would you like that?”

&
nbsp; “Who’s the model?” Joan’s hands clasped together. “I can only think of one who’d have a chance of filling in for Brando, not that he’s half as handsome. Don’t tell me, is it Matt Swanson?”

  Avery nodded wordlessly, watching Joan for a response.

  She squealed like a schoolgirl and flapped her hands. “I mean, he’s not Brando, but he’ll do. How’d you get him to model for you? Isn’t he like a big star?”

  “It’s a deal Alida made. I’m doing some promotional work for him, and he’ll walk in the opening for me.”

  “You think I can get an autograph from him?” Joan asked. “But of course, this is all in Brando’s memory, and Matt Swanson is a favorite hometown hero.”

  “Yes, I’m sure Matt will be glad to autograph anything you want,” Avery said. “In fact, we might be able to have dinner with him before the show.”

  Joan wiped the corners of her eyes and blinked. “I just wish Brando were here. Remember the last playoff game when Matt broke a sack and rushed for the winning touchdown? Brando saved the clip of that boss move for his screen saver.”

  “I’m sure Matt would be happy to hear what fans he has with you and Brando.” Avery put her hand on Joan’s shoulder. “I’ll be taking some publicity photos with Matt ahead of the show, so I don’t want you to be alarmed or anything.”

  “Why would I be alarmed?”

  Avery squirmed in her seat and shrugged, hoping to downplay what she was about to say. “It’s nothing really, but my part of the promotion is pretending to be his date.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” Joan’s eyes sharpened, and she grasped Avery’s arm so tight it pinched. “He has a horrible reputation with threesomes and strippers. Why would you want to be mixed up with him?”

  “It’s part of the deal. I wanted to let you know so you’re not surprised. I know it’s upsetting, but both of us need good publicity. I’ve been a recluse this entire year and out of circulation. He needs to clean up his image or his sponsors will drop him. Being seen with a woman like me will help, especially since I’m a small business owner and come from a conservative family.”

  “Your parents aren’t going to like this one bit,” Joan said. “I don’t like this, and I feel it sullies Brando’s memory. It’s not even a year, and you’re dating a football player? A new man who’s modeling Brando’s fashion line?”

  “I won’t do it if you don’t approve.” Avery stiffened her lip.

  “How fake does it have to be?” Joan asked, clearly torn between her admiration for Matt on the football field and her disdain for his personal life. “I don’t mind if he’s promoting Brando’s name, but the dating part bothers me.”

  “It goes together, unfortunately, although I don’t think it has to be exclusive. We only have to be seen at a few parties and the Fashion Week activities.”

  “Well, I don’t like the thought of you dating anyone.” Joan pursed her lips and heaved her shoulders. “But you’re still young and you have your entire life ahead of you. It would be selfish of me to have you spending Friday evenings with me.”

  “Not at all, Joan. I love our dinners and get-togethers. We can watch that show tonight and listen to music together,” Avery said. “I brought the afghan I’m working on.”

  “You’ll always be the daughter-in-law I wished to have.” She shook her head sadly. “But I don’t think Brando would have wanted you to give up on living. He loved you so very much, Avery. He would want you to be happy.”

  “I’m not going to be happy fake dating Matt Swanson,” Avery said. She lightened what she was about to say with a giggle. “Come on, Joan, stop being so dramatic. Me and you know the truth. I’d gladly be your daughter-in-law in spirit. No one will ever take Brando’s place in my heart.”

  “You sure you’re not fooling yourself?” Joan’s eyes narrowed in a speculative manner. “I detected some consternation surrounding that handsome detective. He stirs you up, doesn’t he? And you’re fighting it.”

  “You would too if every time you see him, you see blood and hear yourself scream. I wish he’d solve the case, and then I’d never have to see or think about him again. Ever.”

  Chapter Eight

  Seeing Avery again up close was triggering Jason in directions he didn’t want to go. It was hard standing so close to her that he could let her lavender-scented perfume go to his head. It was pure torture to banter with her and act casual in front of Mrs. Bonet while trying to keep his mind off bending her back and kissing the life out of her.

  His body memorized every touch from her hands, even the punch in his back, but he’d only had her in his arms once—while she was covered with blood and he was shoving her away from the gunman.

  After leaving Joan’s apartment, he’d grabbed a bite to eat while hurrying back to the precinct with Blade to enter in the notes from interviewing a witness to a hit and run, and now, hours later, he was free.

  Free to wait for Avery and see that she got home. Or free to follow up on a lead. The man with the wraparound sunglasses had appeared on the security camera of a store nearby, and he had a credible excuse to go up and speak to Miss Renzi again.

  She answered the buzzer, and he said, “I have a few pictures I want to show you.”

  “Detective Burnett. I already said I don’t want to pursue any charges.” Her voice was clipped and impatient.

  “How about a professional consultation then? I’m in need of anger management.”

  “You can call my office for that,” she said. “Leave a message.”

  “I’m speaking with you right now. It might be easier to buzz me in so I can make an appointment.”

  “If you’re going to make an appointment just to show me a few pictures, you’re wasting your time,” she said. “I can refer you to a colleague. I’d think there’s a conflict of interest here. You’ve seen me in a nonprofessional manner.”

  “Then what’s the harm in my coming up to show you a few pictures? It won’t take any time.”

  “Pushy bastard, aren’t you?” She sighed so loudly he was sure she was on the verge of relenting.

  “One or the other,” he chuckled.

  “Both, but I still won’t press charges.” She buzzed him in.

  Jason’s heartbeat sped as he hit the elevator to Mrs. Bonet’s floor. Usually Avery stayed for the late-night show, so she would still be in the building. With any luck, she’d let him drive her home instead of taking a cab.

  Armed with the pictures of the wraparound guy, Jason knocked on Tatiana Renzi’s door.

  She opened the door swiftly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re stalking me. What do you have?”

  Jason spread the grainy images in front of her. “I got printouts from a security camera. Is this the guy?”

  “You’re borrowing trouble, you know,” Tatiana said. “I’d leave it alone if I were you.”

  “Why? Is he organized crime?”

  “You could put it that way.” She laughed, seemingly more relaxed because she gestured him in with the beer bottle she was holding. “Want one?”

  “Can’t drink on the job,” he said. “Since I’m here, you mind if I lift fingerprints?”

  He followed her into the kitchen, looking at the glasses sitting on the counter.

  “I doubt he’s in your database,” Tatiana said, taking a swig from her beer. “Why are you really here?”

  Since she didn’t stop him, he took out his fingerprint tape and unrolled it. “I hate bullies. If he’s beating on you, I want him stopped.”

  She pointed to a glass and gave him a wink. “You hate the way he rearranged my pretty face?”

  “Physical assault is never called for.” He put on gloves and prepared to lift the fingerprints.

  “You’re wondering if I’m involved with him, aren’t you?”

  “Are you?” He couldn’t help noticing the sultry look of her lush lower lip and the alluring sweep of her slightly slanted eyes. Fortunately, he wasn’t attracted to her, and she had no r
esemblance to Avery.

  “No, he’s a debt collector, or he works for one, not monetary, of course, but rather influence and power. It’s not easy starting a business in this city—the rents, the licenses, and in my line of work, you need an established client population—wealthy women with eating disorders or neurotic bankers with impulse control issues.”

  “Why do you let him beat on you?”

  “Punishment.” Her pout was exaggerated by the puffiness of her injury. “Ever heard of self-flagellation? It’s a way of atoning for my sins.”

  She had problems, and it was nothing he could solve. “You’re pulling my leg.”

  “No, you’re pulling mine.” She watched him dust for prints on her counter. “What’s really going on here? Why is a detective in my apartment lifting prints on a routine call instead of a uniformed cop?”

  “Following up on a hunch,” he said. “You don’t seem like a typical domestic violence victim, even though you’re trying your best to act like one. I have many investigations going on. Lots of unsolved crime, and I don’t like to leave loose ends.”

  “So, you spend your spare time stalking women you believe are victims?” She raised a slender dark eyebrow. “Come on, Detective. You don’t fool me.”

  “Not trying to.” He pressed the transparent fingerprint tape onto the backing to stabilize it. “Just doing my job.”

  “Except I won’t testify,” she said. “And I’m betting that beautiful model you’re stalking won’t either.”

  “What do you know about her?” His gaze snapped to the therapist’s assessing eyes.

  “Come on, Burnett. Don’t play coy with me.” She crossed her arms and gave a sassy flip of her chin. “I’ve seen you around, following her, and everyone knows you were the guy at the fashion show who shot the killer. Who were you investigating back then?”

  “I wish I knew,” he said, heading to her door to leave. “About that appointment, tell my partner Blade Camden you counseled me. Told me not to get angry.”