The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,59

in toward me now. Closer. And at last…

We kiss.

Tentatively at first. But things heat up fast. Our hands begin to wander and explore. Buttons are opened. Zippers are undone.

Suddenly, she stops.

“Wait. Let’s…let’s…”

I pause, worried I’ve moved too fast. Concerned she’s having second thoughts.

She continues: “Let’s move this into the bedroom.”

Giggling and stealing kisses as we go, we stumble down the hall and into the master bedroom. As I guide her onto the bed, I glance down at her bare torso—and see a jagged L-shaped scar on her right side.

Confirming what Gordon told me earlier is true.

I try to be subtle about it. But I guess she notices me noticing. She covers the scar with her hand, self-conscious.

“Looking at my ugly battle wound?”

“Not at all,” I say.

I lean into her and nuzzle her neck.

“Everything I see is beautiful.”

Chapter 47

I WAKE up the next morning around dawn.

Not that we did much sleeping.

I slide out of bed and into my clothes as quietly as I can. Vanessa is snoring softly beside me. I don’t want to wake her, but I don’t want to sneak out without saying good-bye. I used to pull that move with women I didn’t want to see again.

Not one I’m falling for, hard.

I walk to her side of the bed and gaze down at this stunning woman. Her tousled hair. Her smattering of freckles. Her back, gently rising and falling.

I hate to disturb her—and thankfully, I don’t have to. As if sensing I’m watching her, she opens her eyes and groggily smiles.

“Morning,” she murmurs. “Leaving already?”

“I don’t want to,” I reply. “Believe me. But I’ve got work to do.”

“Oh, come on,” she teases. “You’d really choose food prep over me?”

“The truck’s in the shop for a few more days,” I say. “In the meantime…I’m doing a favor for my old boss in the police department. Checking up on something sensitive that he can’t approach.”

“It can’t be that urgent…”

If only she knew.

As she playfully reaches for my belt buckle, images from our walk last night in the French Quarter flash through my mind. Tens of thousands of innocent people. Completely unaware that they might soon be in unimaginable danger.

Very reluctantly, I take her hand, stopping her, then kiss the top of it.

“I had a wonderful time last night,” I say. “Let’s do it again soon.”

She nods, a sleepy smile on her face. I kiss her forehead, then her lips.

Then I leave, not wanting to look back, knowing that in my weakness, I just might do a U-turn and tumble back into bed with her.

Driving back to my place at this early hour takes less than ten minutes. I’m one of the only cars on the road, and I’m yawning from the lack of sleep—no complaints there!—and an early-morning lack of caffeine.

But as I turn left onto my block, I spot a vehicle that instantly wakes me up.

A few hundred feet from my home is a black, government SUV.

The goddamn feds again. Waiting for me to show up so they can no doubt give me another dressing down, with Agent Morgan tearing me a new one for “getting in his way”—when I’m doing his job better than he is!

I found Farzat first. Got the Needhams’ financial records. Uncovered what I think is David’s money-laundering scheme and turned up the heat on him, all on my own.

I’m this close to cracking this case wide open. The FBI has to know that. They’re fools to keep me at arm’s length when I can be so useful to them. I still don’t know why they’re doing it. But it doesn’t matter. The last thing I need right now is some G-man reaming me out and slowing me down. Or tailing me and getting in my way.

I’d wanted to stop home for a shower and change of clothes. Instead, I blow right past my house and keep going.

I have a new destination in mind. And some new people I want to talk to.

Although I have a dark feeling they won’t be all that chatty.

No matter. With the stakes this high, I have ways of being…persuasive.

Chapter 48

AN HOUR later I pull up to a grim, red-brick commercial building. Its paint is peeling. Its windows are cracked. Its walls are marred with graffiti.

But it’s still the nicest building on the block.

I’m in Mid-City, a scruffy part of New Orleans most tourists never visit. It’s mostly working-class, very diverse, with low rents and a fast-growing immigrant population.

The perfect place for an Islamic charity to set up shop to