Free Hot Schemes by Sherryl Woods Page A

thought of the campaign of death threats and harassment conducted against the city’s newspaper. And then she remembered the fiery explosion just after midnight on the bay and shuddered.
    “Yes, I’ve seen it, all too recently. Tell Brian I love him, okay? I’ll call him as soon as I can. Please reassure him that Michael is fine.”
    When she’d finished talking to her ex-husband, she made one more call, this one to Ted Ryan at the morning paper.
    “Molly, this is a switch, you calling me.”
    She knew she was taking a risk involving the reporter. Michael would be furious if he found out. But her own sources in the Cuban community tended to be middle-class exiles, who maintained an allegiance to their homeland but kept themselves far removed from the politics of terrorism—at least officially. The paper, however, had sources in this exile underground that she would never be able to tap without an introduction. Even Michael would be regarded with suspicion. Señor Lopez’s distrustful, frightened reaction had proved that, as had the nervousness of those who’d witnessed the exchange in the park.
    “I need your help,” she told Ted.
    “Anything,” he said at once. “You know that.”
    “I want everything you have in the files about Orestes León Paredes and that organization he leads. Can you do that?”
    “No problem. I’ll get printouts for you this afternoon. What’s he have to do with the bombing?”
    “That’s what I’m trying to find out. Can you ask around over there and find out where he lives or where he has his headquarters?”
    “Sure. Is there a number where I can call you back?”
    “I’ll call you later.” She glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was already after noon. “How about three o’clock?”
    “I’ll be here.”
    “Thanks, Ted.”
    When she’d hung up, she glanced around Michael’s kitchen, amazed as always at its pristine cleanliness. Not one single dirty dish sat in the sink. She knew if she looked into the dishwasher, she would find none in there either. Unlike most bachelor refrigerators, his would be well-stocked with healthy foods, all carefully wrapped. Most impressive was the restaurant-quality espresso machine on the counter and the array of blended coffees displayed beside it. Michael did love his coffee. Hers, he claimed, was weak, sissy stuff.
    The first time she had come here, only a few weeks earlier after one of Brian’s soccer games, Molly had commented on the neatness of his kitchen. Michael had merely shrugged and gone about the business of putting together a snack for Brian and his teammates with astonishing efficiency. It was, she had since concluded, the same way he approached everything in his life. He kept things precisely ordered so there was no distracting clutter to interfere with the constant mulling of clues and evidence that went on in his head.
    Surprised by her own reluctance, she finally forced herself toward the steps leading to the townhouse’s second-floor bedrooms. This was new terrain to her in more ways than one. She wondered if, once she had climbed those stairs, things would ever be the same between them again.
    Not because of sex, she told herself. She didn’t think that was what was on Michael’s mind anyway. No, because of the vulnerability he had allowed her to see for the first time today. That bond of emotional intimacy was something she had craved far more than physical contact, although there was no denying that more and more lately she’d had restless nights from wanting the sexy, elusive Cuban detective to hold her in his arms.
    Taking a deep breath at the partially-closed door to his room, she pushed the door open, uncertain of what to expect. Disappointment warred with amusement at what she found.
    Michael was sprawled facedown across the bed, his upper body bare, a pair of colorful boxer shorts riding low on his hips, his black hair still damp from his shower.
    So much for crawling into bed beside him, she