Like No One Else. Maureen Smith
gaze roamed appreciatively across her face. “You are an incredibly beautiful woman, Señorita Purnell,” he murmured huskily.
Tommie said nothing. She didn’t trust her voice.
Paulo held her gaze a moment longer, then dropped his hand with obvious reluctance and stepped back. Air rushed into Tommie’s lungs as he turned and sauntered away, glancing casually around the loft.
“Nice,” he remarked.
Tommie knew that was an understatement if she’d ever heard one. She’d purchased the converted warehouse shortly after moving to Houston and had blown all her savings on decorating the spacious second-story loft, with stunning results. The space boasted original hardwood flooring, twenty-foot ceilings, exposed redbrick walls, and a spiral staircase that led to a private rooftop terrace. A collection of stylish, risqué modern art she’d brought from New York complemented furnishings done in bold, dramatic shades of red and black. The open, airy layout featured giant support columns that carved out four large spaces—kitchen, living room, study, and bedroom. A huge expanse of windows stretched the entire length of one wall, keeping the loft perpetually bathed in warm, bright sunlight. Since fall had arrived nearly two months ago, Tommie hadn’t needed to turn on the heat once.
She loved her beautiful, trendy loft situated in the shadow of downtown Houston. When she left behind the bright lights of New York City seven months ago, all she’d wanted was a decent one-bedroom apartment and space to hold dance classes a few days a week. She’d found both in a small, converted warehouse owned by a wealthy real estate investor eager to get the property off his hands before he relocated to another area. By the time Tommie had completed her tour of the dusty old building, she knew it was perfect for her. But the sales price had been way out of her price range. As luck would have it, the seller was a huge fan of ballet, and he’d recognized Tommie from a performance he’d attended in New York the previous year. When she told him about her plan to open a dance studio, he’d generously reduced his asking price, enabling Tommie to qualify for a small business loan. She’d used a large portion of the funds to renovate the building, refurbishing the original hardwood floors and installing a barre, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and a sound system in the studio. Fortunately, the upstairs loft had only needed minor cosmetic work.
Within a month of purchasing the old warehouse, Tommie was comfortably ensconced in her new home and open for business. A glowing feature article in the Houston Chronicle had drummed up more clients for her than any amount of advertising she could have done on her own.
She now taught a diverse array of dance techniques including West African, samba, ballet, jazz, tap, modern, and hip-hop. Her clientele included aspiring ballerinas, high school cheerleaders and dance troupes, popular musicians in need of choreography for a new video, as well as local corporations seeking a recreational offsite activity for employees. Tommie knew she’d eventually have to hire additional instructors just to keep up with the increasing demand for her classes. But that was a good problem to have.
Her attraction to Paulo Sanchez, on the other hand, was not.
From the kitchen, Tommie watched as he slowly wandered around the loft before ending up at the wall of windows that offered a scenic view of downtown Houston. Her gaze was drawn to the way his black jeans clung to his powerful thighs and hugged his firm, muscled butt. When her mouth began watering, she knew it had nothing to do with the fragrant aroma of lasagna wafting from the microwave.
Paulo whistled softly through his teeth. “Great view.”
You can say that again!
Aloud Tommie said, “I’m certainly enjoying it.” As Paulo turned, she quickly schooled her features into a blank mask. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Sure. What’re you offering?”
Tommie pulled open the stainless-steel Sub-Zero refrigerator and peered inside. “I have bottled water, mineral water, skim milk, orange juice, pineapple juice, and an unopened bottle of merlot. Sorry—no beer.”
Paulo chuckled, starting across the room toward her. “The pineapple stuff sounds good.”
Tommie vaguely remembered him having only one or two drinks at the wedding reception, while most of the other single guys had downed beers as if alcohol were going out of style. Throughout the evening several of those men had hit on her, obviously operating under the misguided assumption that her status as a bridesmaid meant she was desperate enough to go home with any half-drunk loser who propositioned her. It was sadly ironic that the only man she’d wanted to sleep with that night had left with someone else.
Shoving aside the memory, Tommie arched a brow at Paulo as she filled two glasses with pineapple juice. “Not much of a drinker, are you?”
“Not anymore.”
Something about his cryptic response piqued Tommie’s curiosity, but she didn’t want to pry by asking him to elaborate. Besides, the less she knew about Paulo Sanchez, the easier it would be to keep him at arm’s length.
Or so she told herself.
The microwave beeped, signaling that the lasagna had finished heating. As Tommie fixed their plates, Paulo made his way over to the long breakfast counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. He removed his leather jacket and draped it over the back of a bar stool. He wore a black T-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders and showcased his muscular forearms. The butt of a gun was visible from his shoulder holster.
“Do you make a habit of skipping lunch, Detective?” Tommie inquired as she set their steaming plates on the countertop, then rounded the corner to claim one of the high-backed bar stools.
“If I’m swamped with cases,” Paulo answered as he sat down beside her, “food isn’t always a top priority.”
“I can understand that,” Tommie conceded. “On my busiest days, I don’t even think about eating until my last class is over, which isn’t until eight on Tuesday and Thursday evenings.”
Paulo slanted her a wry smile. “Is that why Mrs. Calhoun prepares meals for you? To make sure you don’t starve yourself to death?”
Tommie nodded, chuckling ruefully. “She loves to fuss and fret over me. She can’t help herself. She raised four children and has nine grandchildren. Nurturing is second nature to her. But I’m not complaining. I’ve hardly had to cook since I hired her, and quite frankly, she’s much better at it than I’ve ever been.” She watched as Paulo sampled a forkful of lasagna. “How is it?”
“Incredible,” he said, sounding mildly surprised. “Probably the best lasagna I’ve ever had.”
“Oh God,” Tommie groaned. “Please don’t tell Mrs. Calhoun that. You already had her eating out of the palm of your hand after you complimented her piano playing. If you tell her she makes the best lasagna you’ve ever had, she’ll think you walk on water.”
Paulo’s straight white teeth flashed in a grin. “Now, now. Don’t be jealous.”
Tommie rolled her eyes. “In your dreams, Sanchez.”
He chuckled, taking another bite of lasagna. “So, how are you enjoying Houston so far?”
“I love it,” Tommie said sincerely. “I’ve got this fabulous loft, my own dance studio. I’m close to the downtown theater district, and I’ve made a lot of friends at the Houston Met.”
“The dance company?”
Tommie nodded. “I’ve already been to several performances there. I never realized Houston had such a thriving arts scene. I feel right at home.”
Paulo cocked a brow at her. “You’re telling me you don’t miss the hustle and bustle of New York, the city that never sleeps?”
“A little,” Tommie admitted quietly. “There’s no place on earth like New York City. But Texas is, and always will be, my home.”
“Is that why you left the Big Apple?” Paulo murmured, studying her with those