Twenty

THEIR FIRST STOP that afternoon was Peter Sutter Number Eight’s home. Car window open, Ford watched through his camera lens as Victoria waited at the top of the front steps of the massive Lincoln Park greystone.

She rang the bell again and shifted the envelope from her right hand to her left. Watching her through the camera lens, his gaze traveled over her blue sundress, which fell just above her knees. The deep color of the dress highlighted her golden skin, and with her rich brown hair pulled back into a long ponytail, she somehow managed to look both sweet and sexy.

Then he spotted the delicate gold chain she wore around her right ankle.

Oh, man.

An erotic image suddenly came to mind, of her lying on his bed and naked except for that tiny gold chain, while he trailed his mouth up those long legs and made her moan his name in that breathless, sexy way of hers.

And . . . now he had a hard-on.

Christ. Shifting in the driver’s seat, he dragged his mind out of the gutter and refocused.

After a few moments, Victoria gave up. She headed down the steps, walked back to the car, and climbed into the passenger seat. “Is this guy ever home?” Sighing in frustration, she turned and tossed the envelope into the backseat.

Hoping for better luck, they drove next to Peter Sutter Number Two’s place. Ford double-parked on the one-way street, in the gap between two cars, and confirmed that his camera shot wasn’t obstructed.

The front window of the garden unit was open, the blinds up, and he could see a television on inside.

He handed Victoria the envelope. “Remember, stand off to the right, so you’re not in my shot.”

“Got it.”

As she approached the door to the garden unit, he got ready with his camera. She paused, as if looking for something, presumably a doorbell, and then knocked on the door.

As soon as it opened, Ford began snapping away.

A spike of adrenaline coursed through him when he saw that the guy had brown hair and appeared to be in his mid-to-late twenties. Wearing athletic shorts and a tank top, he was in good shape and looked “normal” enough.

Victoria smiled as she spoke, and Peter Sutter nodded in the affirmative. Ford was close enough that he could hear the murmurs of their voices, although he couldn’t catch their exact words. He watched as she presumably went into her speech about living on the next block, how the package got delivered to her place by mistake, et cetera, et cetera. Then she handed over the envelope.

Sutter grinned as he took the package from her. With a friendly nod, she turned to go, and Ford spied through his zoom lens as the guy—who very well may have been the dickhead who’d bailed on his sister—leered at Victoria’s ass.

Ford’s grip on the camera tightened.

“Hey, wait.” With a sly grin, Sutter jogged over to where Victoria stood on the sidewalk. “I didn’t catch your name, neighbor. Which block did you say you live on?”

Ford set the camera down on the passenger seat, thinking it was time for Peter Sutter Number Two to take his tank top and his pesky questions and mosey on back to his apartment. “We all set, babe?” he called out from the car.

Sutter started at the sound of his voice—clearly not having noticed him. Victoria looked over, appearing amused by this breach in mission protocol.

“Yep, all set,” she called back.

“Great.” Resting his forearm on the window, Ford leveled his gaze on Sutter. “How’s it going?”

“Uh . . . good.” The guy mumbled a thank-you to Victoria for bringing over his package, and then hastily headed back into his apartment.

Victoria climbed into the car and raised an eyebrow at Ford. “‘Babe’?”

“It felt like a ‘babe’ kind of moment.” He threw the car into drive, took off, and parked two blocks up the street. His camera was synched via Bluetooth to his phone, so he sent the best of the photos to his cell, and then texted them to his sister. “I told Nicole to be on standby this afternoon, so hopefully she’ll get back to us right away. If Peter Sutter Number Two isn’t our guy, I was thinking we could try our luck charming a few doormen.” He flashed her a mischievous grin. “You’ll want to brace yourself for another onslaught of sexiness, since I’ll be doing my reporter thing.”

He chuckled as she looked out the window, shaking her head and muttering something about his ego.

So much fun.

A few minutes later, Ford’s cell phone rang, sounding through the car speakers via Bluetooth. Seeing it was his sister, he answered on speakerphone so Victoria could hear. “Nic, hey. I’ve got Victoria in the car with me.”

“Yay, my favorite lawyer.” She sounded slightly winded. “Ford said he roped you into helping him find Zoe’s dad. Not sure how he managed that one.”

Victoria gave Ford a wry look that said she wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed it, either.

He winked, whispering, “All charm.”

Victoria turned her attention back to Nicole. “I assume you saw the photo Ford sent you? What’s the verdict?”

“It’s not him,” Nicole said without hesitation. “This looks like the kind of guy who gets your number at a bar and then drunk texts you dick pics at two A.M.”

Ford began to roll his eyes, and then paused.

Actually, he did look like that kind of guy.

“Oh, crap.” In the background, the roar of an L train drowned out Nicole’s voice. It took several moments for the sound to fade away—a sound that was replaced by that of Zoe crying. “Sorry, I’m out running errands—I have Zoe in the stroller and the L woke her up. Shit, and she’d just fallen asleep, too.”

Zoe’s crying grew louder, as if Nicole was holding her close to the phone. “I know, sweetie, that train was really loud. Anyway, like I said, it’s not our Peter Sutter,” she told Ford and Victoria. “Listen, I’ve got to go. Zoe’s totally melting down here. I’ll call you back later. And thank you.” She said a quick good-bye and hung up.

Ford glanced over at Victoria. “She sounded okay, right?”

“Nicole? I think so. I mean, it’s obvious Zoe is keeping her on her toes. Babies do that, I guess.”

He nodded, making a mental note to drop by Nicole’s apartment tomorrow to take her and Zoe out to lunch. He caught Victoria watching him. “What?”

“It is sweet, the way you’re looking out for her.” Her eyes held on him for a moment before she changed the subject. “So. Who’s next on our list?”

Next on the agenda, in order of proximity, were Peter Sutter Numbers Seven, Ten, and Five—all of whom lived in high-rise condo buildings. Their first stop was the residences at the Bloomingdale’s Building, which had an attached garage with guest parking.

“You think the guard will go for it?” Victoria asked, as they rode the elevator down to the lobby level.

“Tough to say. It’s a pretty exclusive place. They should have decent security.”

She adjusted her dress so that the front of it dipped a tiny bit lower, and then winked. “Just in case that reporter ID of yours doesn’t do the trick.”

When the elevator doors opened, they stepped out into the marble lobby and headed for the security desk. A man dressed in a gray suit greeted them. “Can I help you?”

Having spent years trying to get information from people who weren’t always thrilled to provide it, Ford knew that the best approach in this situation was to act friendly and casual. “I hope so.” He introduced himself, showed the doorman his Trib ID, and explained that, as part of a human interest piece he was writing, he was trying to track down a man named Peter Sutter who’d helped rescue a woman who’d jumped into Lake Michigan yesterday to save her dog.

“Apparently, both the woman and the dog were struggling, when this guy jumped in and saved them,” Ford explained.

Victoria gave him a subtle look of approval, seemingly impressed by his cover story.

For added effect, he pulled a small notebook out of his back pocket. “The paramedics on the scene didn’t get Peter Sutter’s address, but they did say that he’s Caucasian with brown hair, somewhere between twenty and forty-five years old. Does that fit the description of the man who lives here?”

The doorman shook his head. “Nah, unfortunately, the Mr. Sutter in this building has red hair.” He looked apologetic. “Sorry I couldn’t be more help—it sounds like good story.”

“Should be. We want to reunite the dog and the woman with the guy who rescued them. Get some nice photos of them together.” He shook the doorman’s hand. “Anyway, thanks for your time.”

Inside the elevator, Victoria waited until the doors shut. “You didn’t even have to bribe him.”

Nope, he didn’t. “And that, Ms. Slade, is how it’s done.”

*   *   *

FORD’S COVER STORY about Peter Sutter, Good Samaritan, similarly worked like a charm with the next two doormen. Unfortunately, they were unable to eliminate either candidate based on the information they learned—Peter Sutter Number Ten was Caucasian with brown hair, and Peter Sutter Number Five was Caucasian and bald.

“It’s been over a year since Nicole met him. It’s possible he shaved his head or lost his hair in that time,” Victoria said as they walked out of the lobby.

“I’ll circle back to him if need be,” Ford agreed.

They were in the heart of downtown, right by Millennium Park. Walking along Monroe Street, they passed by a crowd of kids playing in the Crown Fountain, a shallow pool between two fifty-foot glass towers that projected video images of people’s faces while spouting water.

“Who does that leave on our list?” Victoria glanced at Ford as they walked side by side. He had his sunglasses on, and the sun highlighted the warm tones of his brown hair.

That cute stray lock had fallen across his forehead again.

“There are the guys we need to circle back to,” he said. “And we also have Peter Sutter Numbers Four and Nine left. Both of them live in three-flat condo buildings with no exterior front door to their units. We’ll have to get creative with those two.”

“Plan D?”

“Plan D.” He ran a hand through his hair, as if trying to brush the errant lock into place.

When it fell right back, she smiled. “I’ll get it.” Pausing on the sidewalk, they faced each other as she reached up and tucked the lock into the rest of his beautiful, dark hair. “There.”

“You must have the touch.” He took her hand and ran his lips over the back of her fingers.

Criminy, that was smooth. A warm feeling spread across her stomach.

“I was thinking we could grab something to eat,” he said.

“You know what happens every time we do that.”

His lips curved wickedly at the corners. “Indeed, I do.” He tugged her by the hand, toward the street corner. “Come on.”

While they waited for the light to turn, Victoria looked around. “Where are we going? There aren’t any restaurants this way.”

“Sure there are. Seventy of them.”

Seventy restaurants? It took her a moment, then she realized they were heading in the direction of Grant Park. “Oh, no. We are not going to the Taste.”

Every July, the city hosted the Taste of Chicago, an outdoor food festival with musical bands that brought in over two million people. Chicagoans tended to fall into two camps about the annual bacchanalia, viewing it either as a time-honored tradition or something to be avoided like the plague.

Generally not the biggest fan of teeming masses of sweaty people, Victoria considered herself among the latter.

“It’ll be fun,” Ford said.

“Famous last words,” she grumbled.

But she allowed him to lead her across the street anyway.

*   *   *

IN FAIRNESS, THE scene at Grant Park wasn’t as bad as Victoria had feared. Food vendors in brightly colored tents stretched along both sides of the street. Surrounded by green parkway, and with the Chicago skyline an impressive backdrop against the gorgeous blue summer sky, she and Ford grabbed some food and strolled leisurely while they ate.

She looked over and caught him eyeing her Lou Malnati’s pizza. “I told you that you chose poorly.” He’d given her a big speech about trying something new in the spirit of the festival—hence the smoked alligator hot dog in his hand.

When he grumbled something about it being part of the experience, she smiled and decided to take pity on him. She held out her pizza. “Here.”

He leaned down and took a bite straight from her hands. “Mmm.”

She felt a flutter in her chest, momentarily caught off guard by the playful intimacy of the moment. “I’ve been meaning to ask: how did it go the other night, when you babysat Zoe?”

“Total disaster.” He proceeded to tell her all about Zoe’s volcano-like throwing up and him lying half-naked on the floor outside her room.

She laughed at the story. “Aw, the mighty Ford Dixon, taken down by a four-month-old.” Looking at him as they walked side by side, she was curious. “Volcanic vomiting aside, you do seem to have a way with Zoe. Is that something you want someday? Kids of your own?”

He considered this. “I’m not sure. I like kids, but there’s the obvious issue of who I would have one with. Not all of us have stockpiles of frozen eggs lying around.”

“You know, if you settled down with some nice girl, she just might give you access to her eggs,” Victoria teased.

He nudged her arm playfully. “Well, if it were that easy, it probably would’ve happened already. And then I wouldn’t be here, walking with you on this nice summer day, eating this . . . disgusting alligator hot dog.” He made a face, looking down at it.

She chuckled. “Just throw it away. I’ll split the rest of my pizza with you.” As he jogged over to a garbage can to get rid of the hot dog, she couldn’t help but think about the intriguing comment he’d dropped in there.

If it were that easy, it probably would’ve happened already.

“So why isn’t it easy for you?” She passed him her pizza when they were walking again. “Relationships, I mean.”

He shrugged. “I already told you why I’m single.”

“Ah, yes. I heard the laundry list of thirtysomething male commitment angst. But I think there’s more to it.”

“Hmm. Do you now?” He handed back the pizza.

She took a bite, saying nothing further. Naturally, she was curious. She’d slept with him, she was working with him on a case, and, oddly enough, they were sort of becoming friends. But if this was something he didn’t want to talk about, she wouldn’t pry.

She, of all people, could respect someone’s need to keep certain things private.

“For the record, there are some very valid reasons on that laundry list of male commitment angst.” He paused. “But it’s also been theorized, by some, that my ‘intimacy’ issues have something to do with growing up with an alcoholic parent.”

As someone who knew all about having a complicated relationship with a parent, she treaded lightly with her next question. “And what do you think?”

“I think . . . that we need funnel cake.” He slowed to a stop in front of a tent with a yellow-striped awning.

Apparently, they were changing the subject now.

Fair enough.

She smiled. “Funnel cake, it is.”

*   *   *

AFTER SPLITTING A plate-sized helping of sugarcoated fried dough, they bought a couple of beers and walked to the Petrillo Music Shell, the outdoor amphitheater in Grant Park. A folk-rock band was playing, so they took advantage of the nice evening and sat on the grass to listen.

At some point around the fourth song, Ford looked over and held her gaze, then reached out and gently tucked a lock of hair that had fallen out of her ponytail behind her ear.

Victoria wasn’t naïve; she knew exactly what he was doing. The heated looks, the teasing, the playful touches here and there were all part of the dance—a fun summer fling between two people who were simply enjoying the moment.

So she leaned in and kissed him.

It was a slow, languid kiss, her lips moving over his as one of her hands rested on his thigh. He cupped the back of her neck, gently parting her mouth with his own. They were in a public place, so there was only so far the kiss could go, and perhaps that made it even more exciting. Because when his tongue brushed against hers in a barely there tease—she felt a zip of heat go straight to her core.

She pulled back, feeling flushed. “I think we should go.”

His eyes were as smoky as his voice. “I think so, too.”

Twenty-five minutes later, he had her pinned against the inside of his front door, both of her hands trapped in one of his as he kissed her neck and slid his free hand underneath her dress.

“I need my hands free,” she murmured, completely turned on by the feel of his lips and hands on her.

His voice was low and sinful in her ear. “I like having you at my mercy.”

“You’ll like the things I can do with my hands even more.”

Just like that, he released her. “All right. Show me.”

Her lips curved, she tugged his shirt over his head, dropped it to the floor, and smoothed her hands over his chest.

So beautiful.

Then her fingers skimmed down to the fly of his jeans. She held his gaze, watching as heat flashed in his eyes when she undid the button. Slowly, she slid the zipper down, her fingers brushing against the hard length of his erection.

She got down on her knees.

“Victoria.” His voice was low and guttural.

She slid his jeans and boxer briefs past his hips, wrapped her hand around the base of his cock, and took him into her mouth.

“Fuck, baby, that’s so good,” he groaned, flattening one hand against the front door.

After a teasing lick, she looked up to meet his gaze. “I’ve noticed you like to talk during sex, Mr. Dixon. Just remember, the soundproofing is terrible in this place.”

He curled his fingers tightly into her hair, his eyes blazing down into hers. “I’m going to make you pay for this, you know.”

She smiled wickedly.

Oh, she was counting on it.