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She pursed her lips. “With your mamma’s special sauce?”
“What else?” I ignored a twinge of guilt. As far as Joanna knew, my mother had died a couple of years ago. Another lie.
“What’s the occasion?”
I sat opposite her, frustrated that we were squaring off against each other yet again when I’d much rather kiss her and whisper sweet nothings. “Do I need an occasion to spoil my wife?”
“I suppose not.” She wrapped her fingers around the stem of her wine glass, lowered her nose to the glass, and inhaled deeply. If I’d ever seen her do this before, I might think it was her way of savoring the wine, but I hadn’t. She was sniffing the drink because she was suspicious of me. Did she really think I’d lace her wine?
“I wanted to cook, and it’s been a while since we had pizza.” The explanation was bullshit and she seemed to know it.
“Why aren’t you at Henry’s?” she asked. “Aren’t you scheduled for tonight?”
I flashed her my most charming smile. The one I used on little old ladies and, before I’d met Joanna, on pretty women. “You caught me. I called in a favor so I could have the evening off to romance my beautiful wife the way she deserves.”
She inclined her head in acknowledgement. “It smells delicious. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.” Even if I was beginning to get the impression that my mission to distract her would be adismal failure, I’d never been subjected to her detective side before. I’d always known she was tenacious, but perhaps I’d underestimated just how much.
“Consider it an early Valentine’s celebration,” I added on a stroke of inspiration. Tomorrow was conveniently Valentine’s Day, after all. “Since I’m working tomorrow.”
Her eyebrows furrowed. “Is Henry expecting many Valentine’s Day bookings?”
I chuckled and ran my hand through my hair. “No, but he’d never risk being understaffed.”
Most people’s idea of a romantic night out didn’t include a dusty bar frequented by cops. Still, there were a few couples who both belonged to the department who might go there.
“He does like to be prepared,” she agreed.
“So”—I raised my glass to my lips and sipped—“how was your day?”
It was the kind of question I’d asked many times since our whirlwind relationship had begun, but for the first time, her gaze sharpened, and I got the impression she didn’t intend to tell me everything.
“We discovered our murder victim was pregnant,” she said.
I barely managed to hide my shock. Not at the fact that a pregnant lady had been killed, but if I was correct in thinking that her latest case was the murder of Sasha Sloane—which seemed likely given she’d seen me with Portia—then a pregnancy added a whole new dimension.
“That’s terrible.” I drank another mouthful to buy some time. “Was she far along?”
“Only a few weeks.”
So perhaps no one had known. “That’s sad. Have you had any luck hunting down whoever killed her?”
She sipped her own wine, holding it on her tongue for a few moments, although, whether it was to delay her response or because she enjoyed it, I couldn’t be sure.
“We have a couple of leads we’re following up on,” she said vaguely.
I frowned. Usually, she didn’t mind talking about the details of her cases in the privacy of our home, even if she kept names and personal details to herself. It was unlike her to be circumspect.
“Anything promising?” I asked.
She shrugged. “We can’t be sure yet.”
Yeah, she was definitely holding back. But why?
The timer pinged. I got up and checked the pizza. It was perfectly cooked, the cheese golden, the crust thin and soft. I pulled it out, shifted it onto a cutting board and carried it to the table.
I returned to the kitchen to collect the plates and cutlery. I passed Joanna hers, set mine down, and used the pizza cutter to slice the pizza into six pieces. I took a slice, cut a chunk off, and forked it into my mouth.
