Pied Piper

CHAPTER 21

LaMoia entered the hotel lobby, anxious to see her. His pager had alerted him an hour earlier. The phone number belonged to The Inn at the Market, an upscale sixty-five-room hotel overlooking the Public Market and the churning marble green waters of Elliott Bay beyond.

He didn’t know where she came up with the money for these rooms. The Inn was pricey and didn’t rent by the hour. He supposed that she knew the right people-veteran captains often peddled their influence. Years of fighting the fight had its perks. Or perhaps the rumors that Sheila Hill’s East Coast heritage came complete with a trust fund were accurate. He had never had the nerve to ask.

She answered the door using it as a screen in case of any stray eyes in the hallway. Sheila Hill was careful. She wore a hotel robe and her hair pulled back, her cheeks flushed as if coming off a workout. The bathroom mirror was fogged from the shower. His heart pounded at the sight of her. He missed her company while at work, bothered that their only contact was official.

She hung out the privacy tag and locked the door and pulled on the robe’s belt and it fell open, revealing her carefully waxed crotch and a smooth, tight stomach. “All work and no play,” she said. “It’s in the interest of the task force that you’ve come here.”

She affected him both emotionally and physically. Something new for him. Like a thirsty animal to water, he needed to fill her, to hear her cry out for him. But he wanted her laugh as well, her ideas, her insight-she understood people so completely-her calm guidance, her company. He unbuttoned his shirt, unfastened his rodeo belt and opened his jeans. She fell to her knees.

“Let’s wait a minute,” he complained, stunned by his own words. He always pursued the physical women, the hungry women. Since when did he want to talk? He hardly knew himself.

She stood and turned to the wall.

Spreading her legs, she said, “Take me. Now. Right here.”

She leaned against the louvered mirror that served as the closet door and watched.

LaMoia obeyed, driven frantically to please her. The smells and sounds overcame them both. “Faster, and harder,” she ordered in a tone that he found demeaning. She was not his lover, but the captain ordering this.

“We have work to do,” he said, briefly staying with a rhythm she suggested with her hips.

“You’re doing yours right now,” she returned. “I’ll handle the investigation.”

He withdrew from her. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“You bastard.” She spun around, a playful expression creasing her face as she decided he was simply toying with her.

LaMoia walked slowly backward into the room, Sheila Hill pursuing him in matched steps. “What now?” she asked. “All fours?”

“I’m not your play toy,” he complained.

“Of course you are.” She approached, both hands suddenly busy on her own body. She knew him and his pressure points. “That’s exactly what you are. You love it. We both love it. Because it comes without baggage. But it comes, and it comes hard.” She repeated, “What now? You want to watch?”

He did want to watch-she knew this about him-but he was too far along to stand back and do so. He stepped forward, turned her, and threw her to the bed. She laughed as she bounced. “You’re so easy,” she said. “It drives you crazy when I do that, doesn’t it?”

“Shut up!”

“Make me.”

In the minutes that passed, she gasped between surges of pleasure, her back arched, her smiles twisted and pained.

When it was over, she lay on the bed a glowing ruby, spent and exhausted. LaMoia showered. He returned to find her in the exact same position, but her eyes were open, deliriously taking in the whiteness of the ceiling and the flashing light of the smoke detector.

“Let’s take room service,” she suggested.

“Let’s talk about the surveillance-”

“It can wait. You made the assignments. Everyone’s in place. We have our pagers. We do room service, and another go.”

“I just showered,” he complained.

“And you will again.”

She laughed and sat up on the bed. She looked older and more worn. He wasn’t sure what he was doing there. He wasn’t sure how to leave. It was going wrong for him.

“I’ll call it in,” she said. “What’s your pleasure?”

But it wasn’t about his pleasure; it was about hers. Nonetheless, he answered, “A burger.”

“They don’t do a burger, darling. This isn’t White Tower.” A disapproving, condescending voice of a disappointed mother. “New York Strip? Fillet?”

“Whatever.”

“A salad?”

“What, you’re a waitress now?” he asked, trying to lessen her. But it wasn’t his game; it was hers.

“If you want me to be. Whatever you want me to be, baby. Have I ever refused you?”

He felt trapped, someplace he didn’t want to be, but didn’t want to leave. “I want to talk,” he complained.

“Whatever you want, baby.” But she didn’t mean it.

And yet he stayed. Same as always.