And then it hit her… that sense she’d been having all week that a storm was coming. This was it. This was the storm she’d been fearing.
Holly had shifted all of her attention to Vincent now, who had a placid, you-can-ask-me-anything look on his face, and abruptly Jill realized that they’d somehow just switched roles.
She’d become the snippy bad cop, and he was the cooperative one.
“Have you and Detective Henley ever dated?” Holly asked Vincent.
Vin didn’t look at her as he responded with a clipped “No.”
“Hmm, that surprises me,” Holly said, leaning forward and pouring both herself and Vincent more tea from a porcelain pot. She didn’t offer Jill any.
“How’s that?” Vincent asked.
“The way you look at her.”
It was a good thing Jill wasn’t offered any more tea. She would have dropped the cup just then.
Vincent, on the other hand, went perfectly still. Nothing except his eyes moved.
Eyes that found Jill’s.
“How do I look at her?” His voice was low. Gravelly.
This was, without a doubt, the most bizarre, the most insane, the most painful interrogation she’d ever been on.
“You’re letting her take control of the conversation,” Jill said. “This is beyond inappropriate.”
“I don’t give a shit about appropriateness,” he said.
“Well, I do!”
“You do not,” Vincent said, leaning forward and setting his teacup on the table. “This isn’t about what’s appropriate. This is about you not wanting to have this conversation.”
“I didn’t even know there was a conversation to be had!” she said.
“That’s bullshit,” he shot back. “You’ve been goading me every chance you get. The other day I told you I was happy for you. And yet still, you keep poking at me with your talk of meatballs and honeymoon locations and black tie versus cocktail attire.”
“I wasn’t goading, I was asking you because you’re my friend.”
“Am I? Really? Because a friend doesn’t disappear for three months, come back engaged with not so much as a word of warning.”
“Well, pardon me for assuming that my gruff, non-talkative partner would care about my love life.”
“I cared!” he roared. “I’ve always fucking cared!”
Jill stared at him, speechless, both of them breathing too hard.
Holly continued to sip her tea, looking pleased as punch with herself. No doubt this was the best entertainment she’d had in years.
“We shouldn’t be having this conversation in front of a suspect.”
“I’m still a suspect then?” Holly asked petulantly.
“Yes,” Jill snapped at the same time Vincent muttered, “No.”
There was a long, pained silence, before Jill took a deep breath and looked at Holly. “We just need to verify the authenticity of the letter is all.”
“Well then!” Holly said, all chipper-like. “You’d best get on that! I’d like my name cleared as quickly as possible.”
Should have thought of that before you decided to stir the pot.
This time when Jill stood, Vincent did as well. But he didn’t look at her.
Not when they walked to the door and bid a terse farewell to a far-too-chipper Holly. Not when they got into the car.
Not on the entire drive back to New York.
They rode in ice-cold silence.
Protocol demanded that they stop by the station. File some paperwork, put Holly’s letter into evidence…
But Vincent was apparently far beyond protocol, because he drove them straight home to Queens. Which Jill was just fine with. She didn’t think she could be civil to him right now if someone paid her.
It will be better in the morning, she told herself. We’ll cool off. He’ll realize he was just trying to piss me off.
He pulled up in front of her apartment, and Jill knew it was rude, but she didn’t say a word to him as she grabbed her purse.
She slammed the door as she got out because it felt good.
It wasn’t until she reached the front door that she realized Vin was right behind her.
“What are you—”
She spun around, only to find herself backed against the door by one very livid, very close cop.
Wordlessly, he pulled her keys from her hand and without moving away from her, slowly reached around and unlocked her door.
He unlocked it, pushing it open just barely.
“What the hell, Moretti? In case it wasn’t evident by the last three hours of silence, I have no interest in talking—”
“Oh, we’re talking,” he said, his voice gravelly.
His hand slowly, deliberately rested low on her throat as he pushed her backward into her house.
Followed her inside.
His brown eyes were black with anger. “We’re having this talk, and we’re having it now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Vincent could feel Jill’s heartbeat against his palm as he roughly pushed her back into her apartment.
He told himself the feel of it didn’t excite him—that her excitement didn’t excite him—but he’d be lying.
And it was excitement Jill was feeling, at least for a moment. He saw it in the flash of her eyes, the catch of her breath.
But then her pointy little chin jutted out in defiance as the anger overtook her once more.