Dog Collar Knockoff (22 page)

An instant quasi excitement-slash-panic flooded her. As usual, she wondered if this would be it.
The
call. The one where he’d say he was ready to try again. That he missed her and their life together.

That he wanted her back.

Her stomach pinched. Squeezed like a tight fist inside her. A week ago, she’d have been overjoyed at the prospect of a reunion. Now, suddenly, it gave her stomach cramps.

Confused.

That’s all she was. The super-cute Irish cop had gotten her all hot and bothered with his charm and humor and…well…
newness
. But she had history with Frankie. He knew her inside and out. He fit every curve and nuance. He understood her.

And he’d just called her. A week ago, she’d have run straight to him. Now, thinking back on all the nights alone—and spending time with Tim—she didn’t know.

Don’t think about it.

She tapped the voicemail button. One voicemail. Not Frankie. The plumber Joey had hired couldn’t start the job today.

“I should have hired someone myself.”

She scrolled her phone for Joey and waited for the call to connect. No answer. He said he’d be at Frankie’s, just a few blocks away, working with the painters. Since she suddenly had time on her hands, she’d swing over there and let him know his plumber crapped out on them. And wow, that term was appropriate in so many ways.

She headed east toward Frankie’s. Depending on his schedule, he might be at work and she wouldn’t have to see him. After just seeing Tim—and experiencing the lightness and fun that always came with him—she didn’t want to squash it by worrying over the current status of the Frankie situation.

Soon, they’d have to decide what they were doing. Not today. But soon.

Her phone rang. Probably Joey calling back. Strange number and definitely not Joey’s. Wait. A Michigan area code.
Ooh.
Roger Isby. The Gomez family lawyer.
Ooh, ooh, ooh.

She tapped the screen. “Hello? This is L… Delilah.”

Close one. Almost catastrophic since Mr. Isby only knew her as Delilah, the overworked assistant.

“Hello, Delilah. This is Roger Isby.”

“Yes. Hi, Mr. Isby.”

At the corner, Lucie turned left and ran into Mrs. Delvin, a retired teacher from her grammar school days.

“Good morning, Lucie,” she said.

Ach! All she needed was her cover being blown by her third grade teacher.
Get rid of her.
Not wanting to be rude to either Mr. Isby or Mrs. Delvin, Lucie smiled and waved at the woman and then pointed to her phone while mouthing an “I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Delvin nodded, patted Lucie’s shoulder, and moved on toward the center of town.

“Delilah,” Mr. Isby said, “I spoke to the family regarding your interest in the painting.”

Uh-oh. This didn’t sound positive. Or maybe the lawyer always had that flat tone. “Thank you. Hopefully it’s good news.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Oh?”

“The family is retaining the painting for their private collection.”

Lucie halted in the middle of the sidewalk. Her vision did a loop-the-loop and she swayed a little, put her free hand out for balance. No good. She fell back a step, literally blown backward by the lawyer’s announcement that the Gomez family still had control of the original painting.

That swindling Bart.
Thief.

“They still own it?”

“Yes. Arturo’s younger sister has it in her home. She is quite attached to it and doesn’t intend on selling.”

Which meant Mr. Lutz had a copy. Or a forgery. At this point, was there a difference? Probably not because, either way, Mr. Lutz was under the impression he had the original.

And he didn’t.

As just confirmed by the Gomez family lawyer.

Deal with it.
That’s all. Being a Rizzo, she’d had bigger problems than this. She straightened up and set her shoulders like the good little soldier she’d been taught to be.

“Delilah?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m here. Just thinking.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

The guilt set in. Darn it. This man thought they wanted to buy that painting when all along, they’d been lying. Tricking him into telling them if the family still owned the original.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

Between the guilt over lying and the guilt over setting Mr. Lutz up with a swindler and the guilt over enjoying Tim’s company, could this morning get any worse?

But seriously, she needed to buck up here. She was Joe Rizzo’s kid and this was a blip. Mere nonsense.

She breathed in, shook her head, and wrangled her self-control.
You can do this, Luce.

She started walking again, away from the storefront, away from Petey’s and all her father’s friends, who were no doubt holding court.
Just get away.
She waved at a passing car—no idea whose—when the driver honked.

“Oh, Mr. Isby, that’s all right. I know my boss wanted that painting, but I completely understand. It’s a family heirloom. I wouldn’t part with it, either.”

“Thank you for understanding. There are other paintings available if your employer is interested.”

“I’ll tell her. And thank you.”

She disconnected and immediately bent at the waist, resting her hands on her thighs. She needed help. Someone who could make things happen. Someone who could sort through information and come to a logical conclusion.

You know.

Yes, she did. She stood tall, took another long pull of the mercifully not-as-humid August air and dialed Tim.

Three rings in, his voicemail came on, and his deep voice nearly crawled right through the phone line, wrapping her in that odd comfort she always took from him.

“Hi. It’s me. Lucie. The lawyer from Michigan just called about the Gomez painting. The family still has the original painting and it’s definitely not for sale. Mr. Lutz has a copy and that makes two-for-two on the fake painting scale. I’m freaking out. Please, Tim. I need your help.”

N
ot knowing what
else to do until Tim returned her call, Lucie kept moving to Frankie’s. She needed to accomplish something right now, and the plumber issue gave her a distraction. Something she could deal with and maybe actually manage to figure out. Unlike her forged paintings dilemma.

As long as this trip to Joey’s new apartment didn’t include running into Frankie, she’d be fine. She checked the time on her phone. Not even lunch time. And that meant the very real possibility of running into Frankie since he worked evenings at the newspaper. His stories needed to be filed right after the evening games, so he typically didn’t get home until after midnight.

But maybe she’d get a break today, because right now, their romantic situation had no teeth in comparison to being someone’s prison bitch.

“No way.
Nobody’s
bitch.”

Lucie quietly opened the outer door of Frankie’s three-flat and the faint smell of his cologne, some fancy stuff he bought at Neiman’s, permeated the hallway. Every instinct, the sheer muscle memory, drew her gaze left. The door leading to his apartment.

Habit or not, her body would have to get used to heading upstairs to see Joey. Her brain understood the concept. She just couldn’t get the rest of her to fall in line.

She set her hand on the banister and squeezed.
Upstairs
.

Stepping softly, she darted up the stairs, checking Frankie’s door every few feet just to make sure he didn’t come out. She cleared the second floor landing.

Made it.

Either Frankie hadn’t heard the front door open or he wasn’t home. Which, of course, made her wonder where he might be.
Upstairs.
Keep moving.

Lucie stopped again at the third floor landing, knocked lightly and waited. No answer. Joey had said he’d be here with the painters all morning. They could’ve been in the back part of the house and didn’t hear her knock. She checked the knob. Unlocked. Maybe she shouldn’t be walking into her brother’s apartment, but he hadn’t moved in yet, so it wasn’t like she’d catch him running around commando.

Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d seen that disgusting sight since moving back to Chateau Rizzo. The man walked around in his boxers as if she and her mother weren’t even there.

She pushed open the door, checked right where the room led to a short hallway to the kitchen at the back of the house. She glanced down the hall, didn’t see anyone. Hmm…

“I’m telling you,” Joey said from the front room, “I’ve got the picture right here and you don’t have it.”

“Are you insane? I’m good, but not that good.”

Ro’s voice. At Joey’s. And what were they talking about? Probably something about decorating. Her brother was no dummy and probably recruited Ro to help with paint colors and furniture placement. Lucie stepped around the short wall separating the entry from the living room.

“Guys,” she said, “what are you arguing about?”

“Ohmygod.”

The panic in Ro’s voice, that slight break, should have been the first clue, but no. The second clue was the important one. The clue Lucie saw rather than heard. Joey flat on his back on the bare hardwood floor, cell phone in hand, while he studied the screen. Sitting on top of him, facing his feet—
my eyes
—Ro inhaled hard enough to make her extremely naked boobs bounce.

Lucie scanned her best friend’s bare legs straddling Joey’s hips. Slowly, as if taking in a bad wreck, she shifted her gaze up. To the dark, swirling hair on Joey’s chest and then, still taking in that horrendous wreck, she followed the flash of bare skin to where Joey’s hip met Ro’s leg.

Too much. Gah!
My eyes.

Lucie started screaming. A blood curdling, axe-murderer-is-chasing-me scream that bounced off the stripped walls and echoed through the empty apartment.

Ro scrambled to lift herself off of Joey, but he locked his fingers around her waist, squeezing with enough force that the veins in his hands popped.

“Don’t get up,” he said. “I’m naked here!”

And Lucie screamed louder, threw her hands over eyes that had to be bleeding. Had to be.

“Luce!” Ro said, “Stop that yelling. The whole neighborhood can hear you. Joey, hand me that shirt.”

“God’s sakes, Luce,” he said. “Turn around.”

And still Lucie screamed. Too much. All of it. No woman should have to see her brother naked.

Ever.

Somewhere behind her, Ro laughed, but it wasn’t a ha-ha laugh. Nervous, not typical of anything Lucie ever heard from her BFF.

“I’m afraid to look.” Lucie poked at her closed eyes. “It’s like tiny daggers shooting into me.”

“What the hell’s the screaming?”

Frankie’s voice. Huffy. As if he’d sprinted up all three flights. With all the screaming, he probably had.

Lucie opened her eyes, found Frankie in the doorway, his chest indeed heaving. She threw her hands out. “Don’t look!”

Last thing she needed was Frankie seeing Ro naked. If he saw that perfection, she’d be doomed. She’d never feel comfortable
au natural
in front of him again.

And yet, he leaned left to peek around her. “What’s wrong?”

She shifted to block his view. “Please don’t look. It’s a nightmare.”

“Is someone dead?”

“Not yet. But Joey could be soon.”

Again Ro laughed, but this time it wasn’t so panicked. “Usually, I’m the drama queen.”

Frankie’s jaw didn’t just drop, it plummeted. “Ro?”

Again, he tried to peep around Lucie. Again, Lucie blocked his view. She tapped her fingers over her eye sockets. “Are my eyes bleeding? They have to be.”

Frankie snorted. “No. You’re fine. What’s wrong?”

“Lucie,” Ro said, “don’t be mad. It’s not what you think.”

Oh,
that
was priceless. What she’d just witnessed could only be a few limited things. And she was damned sure it was what she thought it was.

“Not what I think? I just walked in on you and Joey, apparently re-enacting the wheelbarrow and you’re telling me it’s not what I think? What the hell
else
could it be?”

“Ooh,” Frankie said. “I missed something good. What wheelbarrow?”

“Shut it, Frankie,” Joey barked. “Ro, grab my damn pants.”

Ach.
My eyes.

Fighting a laugh, Frankie bit his bottom lip and Lucie’s head nearly exploded. She stabbed him in the chest with her finger. “Don’t you dare laugh. I might be traumatized by what I just saw.”

“Trust me, honey,” Ro cracked, “you didn’t see the best part.”

And Lucie started screaming again. This nightmare wouldn’t end.

Frankie reached for her, squeezed her arms. “Sshhh. It’s okay. You’re fine.”

Not fine. Totally not fine.

“Luce,” Joey said, his voice calm. As if she hadn’t just walked in on him and her best friend experimenting with early European porn. “Quit that goddamn screaming. We’re dressed. You can look.”

Finally, she turned and spotted Joey tucking his shirt into his shorts. Basketball shorts. Ones that left no doubt the wheelbarrow scene had not been as they say, fully consummated. Lucie spun back to Frankie. “I can’t look at him in that condition. And he’s lucky—so lucky—because right now I could beat him with a shovel. To death.” She faced her brother, but kept her gaze above his shoulders. “The fact that she’s my best friend is bad enough. Given the history, I could live with that. But, cripes, Joey, she’s still
married
. She’s vulnerable right now.”

He screwed up his lips. “Ro has never been vulnerable a day in her life.”

“The two of you, shut up.” This from the married one. “Luce, it’s not like I’m cheating on a saintly husband. He was screwing a stripper. And hello, he’s moved out and the divorce is in the works. Besides, you can’t blame Joey for this. It takes two people.”

Ignoring the horror of Joey’s expanded crotch, Lucie dragged her eyes to Ro. “When did this all start up again?”

“The other night was the first time. I swear.”

“When the other night?”

“The O’Br…”

Ro stopped talking, flicked her eyes to Frankie.
The O’Brien night.
Thank goodness she didn’t let that fly. Lucie nodded. “The night Joey went over to your house?”