Vincent never stopped moving. Not until he was in her face, crowding her until her back was all the way against the car, mere inches separating their tense bodies.
Jill was appalled to realize that she was breathing hard. So was he, both of them all but vibrating with anger, and… and something else.
His dark gaze was furious as it burned down into hers.
“You’re spoiling for a fight, Henley.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he interrupted. “You keep poking at me, baiting me. You want me to say something, but damned if I know what you’re looking for.”
Jill swallowed nervously then and had to look away, because damn it… he was right. He was totally, totally right, on all counts.
“I—”
He moved imperceptibly closer. She felt his breath on her face, coffee mingled with the mint, and suddenly she couldn’t look away from his mouth.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” he said in a gravelly voice. “You were right before. You were the one who left. You were the one who met a man. You were the one who got a ring on your fourth finger in record time. You left me, yes. But I don’t resent you for it, and I never have. You got that?”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “I got that.”
“I may not be the effusive type, but I care about you, Henley. I want you to be happy, even if that means you and I part ways. You got that too?”
Jill’s heart should have flown at that moment. He cared about her. He cared about her. He’d never come even remotely close to admitting it, and just a few months ago, the admission would have sent Jill flying over the moon.
Vincent Moretti cared about her. He wanted her to be happy…
And yet… she wasn’t happy. Not at the moment.
Because as quickly as the euphoria had come on, it fled. For some utterly unidentifiable reason, his admission left her more melancholy than if he hadn’t spoken at all.
Almost as though it wasn’t enough.
He pulled back slowly, and she felt the loss of his body warmth acutely. She lifted her hands to pull him back, only to realize the utter insanity of that. Instead she shoved them in her pockets and squeezed her eyes shut.
Tom. Think of Tom. You’ll see him in just a few hours, and everything will be fine…
“Henley, let’s get a move on it. We’ve got a case to solve,” Vincent called, already several feet down the sidewalk.
Right. She took a deep breath, opened her eyes.
They had a case to solve.
Likely the last they’d have together.
Might as well make it a good one.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Vincent’s apartment was the one place where the Moretti family never gathered. Ever.
He didn’t blame them.
His place was quintessential bachelor pad.
Beat-up hardwood floors. A Spartan black leather sectional that had probably seen better days even back in the Reagan administration. A dented coffee table. Nary a throw pillow in sight. A big-ass TV that had cost far more than the couch, coffee table, and nonexistent throw pillows combined.
He kept the kitchen clean, but it was small; just big enough for him to keep himself fed, and certainly not large enough to host his big, chronically hungry Italian family.
Vincent was also the only family member to live in Queens. His parents were on Staten Island, Elena in Midtown, and his grandmother and brothers in Upper West Side. His place wasn’t exactly “on the way” to anything.
But none of that was why his family avoided his house like the plague—especially come feeding time.
No, the reason that his house was Absolute Last Choice of Moretti family gathering spaces had to do with the fact that while the rest of his place was rather Spartan, his walls were colorfully and frequently adorned.
With crime scene photos.
Corkboards competed for space only with the dry erase whiteboards, and every last surface was generally covered with pictures, notes, charts, and even the occasional good, old-fashioned, I-thought-they-only-did-that-in-the-movies string running among various pieces of evidence.
Technically speaking—he wasn’t supposed to have any of this out of the office.
But Vincent had never been a stickler for the rules.
This was how he solved crimes. This was where he solved crimes. Sure, he had a desk at the precinct, and he put in the bare minimum of face time in order to not get his ass fired.
But the office was bullpen style. A bunch of desks pushed together, his one of dozens in the middle of a crowded, ever-buzzing room.
He couldn’t think there. Couldn’t get inside the mind of the victims, and certainly not inside the head of the suspects.
Vin needed space, and visuals, and above all else, quiet.
It was that last one that was turning out to be really fucking hard to come by on a Sunday evening.
The phone would not stop ringing.
“What,” he snapped into the phone without glancing at the caller ID.
He’d already heard from:
His mother (how come you never come to dinner anymore?).
His father (did you catch the guy yet?).
His grandmother (will you pick me up from my colonoscopy on Tuesday?).