Drop Dead Gorgeous (25 page)

"I like the
hissy
fits way better than you looking at me like I've slapped you," he said. "Now listen up."

I wasn't in any mood to "listen up." I stalked into the living room and sat down in one of the chairs, so he couldn't sit beside me.

He put the phone on the coffee table and leaned over me, bracing his hands on the chair arms and pinning me in. His gaze was hard and glittering. "Blair, you
will
listen to me.
I sincerely, deeply
apol-gize
.
You're a lot of things, but paranoid isn't one of them. I should have listened and put the pieces together."

I pressed my lips together, waiting for the comment that, if he'd had all the pieces, he might have come to that conclusion earlier. He didn't make it; he doesn't feel the need to state the obvious, as I often do.

"That said,"
he
continued, "there's a strong possibility this nut case has been watching your condo. How else could she know you were alone last night? We're usually together."

"I didn't see any strange cars when I got home."

"Do you know what everyone in these condos drives? I didn't think so. If she'd made any threats I wouldn't leave you alone, but she's stopped short of that."

"You don't think trying to run me down is a threat?"

"That person was driving a beige Buick, not a white Chevrolet. I'm not completely discounting it as part of the pattern, but it's entirely possible that was a stand-alone incident, and until proof surfaces that the driver of the Buick is also the driver of the Chevrolet, it'll be treated as stand-alone. These harassing phone calls are Class-Two misdemeanors, and if I can find out who's making the calls then you can press charges, but until then—"

"What you're saying is that this doesn't appear serious enough to warrant a great deal of police attention."

"You're getting a great deal of
my
attention," he said. "I'm not taking this lightly. I want you to pack your things and go home with me. There's no reason why you should be harassed and annoyed when you don't have to be."

"I can also just have my phone number changed, and get it unlisted," I pointed out.

"You're moving anyway, when we get married. Why not do it now?"

Because I wasn't certain we'd be getting married
. His apology about the woman following me and my supposed paranoia was gratifying, but didn't address our larger issues. "Because," I said. There.
Short and to the point.

He straightened, looking incredibly annoyed, considering I was the injured party here.

For a minute I thought he would press the point, but instead he decided against an argument and changed subjects. "I'm taking your phone in to the department, letting one of our techno geeks see if he can do anything with that recording, maybe pull out some background sounds or enhance the voice. Don't answer the phone unless I'm the one calling. In fact, turn on your cell phone; I'll call it instead. If anyone
comes
visiting, don't answer the door; call nine-one-one instead. Got it?"

"Got it."

"There's a strong chance no one is watching you at any given time, just doing drive-bys to see if your car is here and if my truck is here, so I'm taking your car, and leaving my truck parked out front."

"How would she know you're involved with me at all if she isn't literally watching me?"

"If she knows where you work, then she's seen my truck parked at Great
Bods
on the nights when you're closing. It's a distinctive vehicle. She could easily have followed both of us here one night."

Something occurred to me and I gasped. "She's the one who keyed my car!"

"Probably."
The readiness with which he agreed told me he'd already thought of that.

"That's vandalism! I hope that at least raises this to a Class
A
misdemeanor." I was a bit disgruntled at being a Class B, or whatever.

"Class-One misdemeanor," he corrected. "
And
,yes
, it does.
If
this person actually did the damage, or had it done."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," I said impatiently.
"Innocent until proven guilty, and all that crap.
My ass."

He gave a brief laugh and bent to retrieve the phone from the coffee table. "I'm impressed by your sense of justice. And I love your ass."

Actually, I already knew that.

We swapped keys, or rather Wyatt did; I simply gave him my extra key to the Mercedes, which wasn't on a key ring, while he had to take the key to the Avalanche off his ring because his extra, of course, was at his house. I had once pointed out that having the extra at home did him no good if he lost his keys, to which he had smugly replied that he didn't lose his keys.

"I relocked the front door when I came in," he said as he let himself out the side door, into the portico. "Don't forget to set the alarm."

"I won't."

"It's already late, and I don't have clothes here for tomorrow, so I won't be back tonight unless you hear or see something, but if you do, call nine-one-one before you call me. Got it?"

"Wyatt."

"Call nine-one-one on the landline so they'll have your address, and use the cell to call me."

"Wyatt!" I said, getting more annoyed with every word out of his mouth.

He stopped and turned.
"Yeah?"

"Hello, telephone expert here! I grew up with one attached to my ear. I also know how nine-one-one works. I think I can manage."

"Hello, cop here," he replied, mimicking my tone. "I tell people what to do. It's my job."

"Oh, great," I muttered. "You're turning into me."

He grinned, grasped me behind the neck, and pulled me to him for a quick, hungry kiss. I didn't have time to bite him, it was so quick.

"Three things," he said.
"For the record."

"What?"

"One: it isn't just your
hissy
fits that turn me on. So far, pretty much everything does the trick."

I didn't look down at his crotch, but I wanted to.

"Two: I didn't think I would, but I love the haircut. You're cute as hell."

Involuntarily I touched my hair. He'd noticed!

"And three…"

I waited, unwillingly breathless with anticipation.

"You still owe me a blow job."

I double-checked every door and window, and made certain the alarm was set. I pulled the curtains over the double French doors leading from the dining alcove onto the covered patio. My small backyard had a six-foot privacy fence around it and a gate that could only be unlocked from inside, but a six-foot barrier isn't insurmountable. The fence was for privacy, not security.
Big difference.

If I were going to break into a place, I'd pick the back, so there would be a much smaller chance of being seen. With that in mind, I turned on the little white lights that festooned the trees, and the patio light. Then I turned on the light over the side door, in the portico. I turned on the front porch light. I felt a little dumb, lighting up the place like a Christmas tree, but I didn't want any entrance to my home shrouded in darkness.

As tired as I was, I was too uneasy to sleep. I also still needed to do some thinking about Wyatt, to figure out exactly which issues had been addressed tonight and which hadn't, but at the same time keep an eye out for some moron in a Malibu. I don't know if it's possible to deeply ponder issues and at the same time be
hypervigilant
. I'm guessing not.

I compromised by staying awake and not having the television on, or the
earbuds
of my
iPod
stuck in my ears, so I could hear any unusual noises, and doing mundane stuff that didn't need a lot of concentration. I got out the clothes I was going to wear the next day. I got my new shoes out of the closet and tried them on again, and they were as gorgeous as they had been last Thursday when I'd bought them. I walked in them to make certain they were comfortable, since I'd be wearing them for hours. They were. I was in shoe heaven.

That reminded me that my snazzy blue boots from
Zappos
should have arrived, but any delivery was left on the steps under the portico and there hadn't been anything there. I suppose some new delivery person could have left the box on the front porch, but in that case Wyatt would have brought it in. No delivery, then.

I was still carrying a summer purse, and it was time to switch to a more substantial autumnal bag, so I got my purse from downstairs, carried it up, and dumped the contents on my bed. Jazz's invoice from Sticks and Stones caught my attention, of course, and I went over it again item by item. Part of me was outraged by Monica Stevens, but part of me had to admire her; it takes guts to overprice things by that much.

I swapped everything over to a nice leather tote, and stored the summer bag on the top shelf of my closet. Then I checked Caller ID on the upstairs cordless to see if there had been any more calls from Denver.
Nothing.

Finally I couldn't think of any other trivial things to waste time with, and I was yawning, so I crawled into bed and turned out the light. As soon as I did, of course, I was no longer sleepy. Every sound I heard seemed creepy, even those I knew.

I got up, turned the lights back on, and went downstairs to the kitchen where I selected the biggest chef's knife I owned. Comforted by the weapon—hey, it was better than nothing—I went back upstairs. Five minutes later, I was back downstairs digging in the closet under the stairs, where I unearthed my big black umbrella that looked like something out of
Mary
Poppins
. I usually carry smaller, more colorful umbrellas, but I have the big black one just because I think everyone should have a serious umbrella. Closed, it was very sturdy; I figured it was strong enough to hold off a psycho stalker bitch while I whacked at her with my chef's knife. With my umbrella lying on the bed on top of the covers, and the knife on my bedside table, I felt as prepared as I was likely to be, short of buying a shotgun.

I turned out the lights, lay down, and promptly sat up again. This was not going to work. Getting up, I turned on the lights in the hall and on the stairs. That way I had light, but it wasn't shining directly in my eyes, plus anyone who came to the door would be silhouetted against the light but wouldn't be able to see me. Good plan.

As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered why I didn't own a shotgun. Single woman, living alone; a shotgun made sense. Every woman needs a shotgun.

I woke an hour later to roll over and look at the clock. Fifteen after two. All was quiet. I checked Caller ID again; no calls had come in.

I should have gone to Mom and Dad's, I thought.
Or to
Siana's
.
At least then I'd have been able to sleep. Now I'd be exhausted all day tomorrow.

I dozed off again, and woke a little after three. No crazy was silhouetted against the light. I didn't check the phone, because by this point I didn't care if the crazy bitch had called. Sort of half-dozing, I tried to get comfortable in bed. My knee banged the umbrella. I felt hot and uncomfortable, and the flickering light was annoying.

Flickering light? If the electricity went out, I would so freak.

My eyes opened and I stared at the hall, where the light seemed to be steady enough, but the light in my bedroom was definitely flickering.

Except I hadn't left any lights on in my bedroom.

I sat up and stared at my windows. Beyond the pulled curtains, red lights danced.

From below came a huge crash as something broke the windows, and my alarm began its cautionary beeping, warning that it was about to erupt into full shrill. "Shit!" I leaped out of bed, grabbed the umbrella and chef's knife, and bolted into the hall, only to reel back as a blast of heat and fiery sparks rose to meet me.

"Shit!" I said again, retreating to the bedroom and slamming the door against the heat and smoke. Belatedly, my fire alarm began its piercing shriek.

I grabbed the phone and dialed 911, but nothing happened. The phone service was already gone.
So much for that plan.
I had to get out of here! Roasting alive was so not on my schedule. I grabbed my cell and punched in 911 as I ran to the front window and looked out.

"This is the nine-one-one emergency operator. What is the nature of your emergency?"

"My house is on fire!" I screamed. Shit! The whole front of the condo was leaping with flames. "My address is

I ran to the other window, the one overlooking the portico. Flames were already eating through the slanted roof right below the window. Shit!

"I've dispatched the fire department to your address," said the calm operator. "Is anyone else in the house with you?"

"No, I'm alone, but this is a condo and there are four units in this building." The heat and smoke were building at a terrifying speed, and all of my windows were blocked by fire. I couldn't go downstairs and out through the French doors in back because whatever had been thrown through the windows had ignited the entire living room, by the looks of it, and the stairs ended there by the front door.