Girls Just Wanna Have Guns (19 page)

“I don’t expect anything from you, Bobbie Faye.” His tone was so cold, he might as well have ice-picked her.

“Obviously.” Freezing temps right back at him.

He should shut up. He should get up and leave, since he’d gotten the answers he needed. He should stand up right fucking now and walk out that door.

“You know,” he said, his voice hard and cutting, “that’s what happens after you leave a person. They move on.”

An utter look of shock played across her green eyes. She leaned forward as if a little gut-punched, and he didn’t know what she wanted from him. To never date anyone else while she blithely went on with her life? To always be that guy she rejected, pining away? The one she kept as a backup plan? To hell with that.

“You . . . you’re trying to say that
I’m
the one who left?”

“Of course you left.”

She stared at him like she was seeing him for the very first time, and something tingled on the back of his neck, something that told him the picture had just shifted a bit to the right, but hadn’t clicked quite into place, and she started shaking her head in disbelief. Then she chuckled, but without any mirth or joy. No, it was more along the line of total incredulity.

“That,” she said, hopping up and yanking the front door open, “is just like you. How someone can be as good a detective as you are and still be blind as a freakin’ bat is flat beyond me. Now you got your answers to your questions. You can leave.”

Benoit approached the antique shop, reaching for the door handle when he heard Reggie O’Connor say, “So, Benoit, you’re looking good.”

He turned to face her, wowed by her bright red low-cut shirt, just the right amount of cleavage for her job as an on-air reporter, and her long hair curled in messy waves that looked natural. She beamed a perfect, blinding-white toothy smile and if he hadn’t known her reputation for being a cutthroat reporter, he’d have immediately asked her out. Or given in one of the number of times she’d propositioned him. But he wasn’t completely insane. Dating Reggie would be a bit like dating a piranha; it wasn’t a matter of
if
you’d be eaten . . . just
when
.

“Aw,
chère
, you say that to everyone. Might as well cut to the chase.”

“Benoit, sugar, one of these days, you’re gonna realize I will be the best thing that happens to you. But right now”—she flicked a hand and Benoit caught a subtle signal and realized her cameraman was standing off to the side, rolling—“I want to know what’s the story about how Bobbie Faye has been caught on tape shooting our jeweler vic?”

It was a damned good thing he’d played poker for most of his life; he feigned surprise and leaned in to her a little. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,
chère
, but this sounds real interesting. Where’d you hear this?”

“Apparently, Mr. Beauregard told his wife, who told her sister, who called her ladies group at her church, and it pretty much spread from there. Mr. Beau said you have the only copy. Care to comment?”

“Now,
chère
, you know I don’t comment.”

“Not even for your friend, who looks like she gunned a man down in cold blood?”

“You have a good day, now, Reggie. I like your shirt.”

He stepped inside the antique shop, ignoring Reggie’s swearing under her breath; he knew Reggie’s boss would love to air something—anything at all—on this story. It had ratings written all over it. If Reggie could get someone to comment, she’d run with the story live and there wasn’t going to be a helluva lot he could do about it. Once it became officially public, he’d have to log the DVD footage (and the original hard drive) into evidence and he could just imagine the DA’s delight at finally getting to press charges against Bobbie Faye.

Cam strode past Bobbie Faye and took the corridor to the garage area where Nina stored her cars. He replayed the argument, especially Bobbie Faye’s parting shot, and ran slap into Francesca, who nearly fell off her stilettos onto her flaming pink ass. He caught her and averted his eyes from the micro-mini that should have required him to have an ob-gyn license, and he sure as hell didn’t want to encourage Francesca. In high school—when everyone else knew he was nuts about Bobbie Faye and they were best friends and he hadn’t figured out how to change their status without ruining the friendship—Francesca’s version of “flirting” had been to show up in his bedroom every weekend of one summer. Naked. In his bed. He finally figured out she was conning his youngest brother into leaving Cam’s window unlocked, but locking it didn’t seem to give her the message—she just switched to waiting for him after the summer football practices.

“Oooooh, Cam,” she cooed, her voice dropping an octave to a sultry whisper. “You’re single now . . . I’m single now . . . you wanna catch up later? Maybe have some drinks? I mean, after I help poor Bobbie Faye with her makeover and some other stuff?”

“Oh
hell
no,” Bobbie Faye said from behind Cam, and he heard her slam Nina’s door shut. He distinctly heard the lock click.

“No thanks, Frannie.”

“It’d be fun.” She pressed a well-manicured nail lightly into his chest and started to stroke downward. “We haven’t caught up in a long time.”

He caught her hand and pressed it away from him. He tried to pull back his anger and frustration with Bobbie Faye to keep it from spilling over. “No, Frannie.”

Her eyes shone a little bit, and he felt like he’d just kicked a puppy. “Well, if you change your mind.” She smiled.

As she walked toward Nina’s door, he turned back to her and asked, “By the way, how did you know where to find Bobbie Faye?” He was certain his ex hadn’t called Francesca, even though Bobbie Faye was trying to help her—Bobbie Faye’s patience with
Annoying, Unlimited
was about as thin as an amoeba. Nina’s physical address—her newest physical address in an everchanging list of homes—wasn’t listed. Cam had the security code only because Nina wanted one cop on the force to know it when she was out of town.

“I followed
you
, silly,” Francesca said, and she gave him the little cheerleader wave as she pranced toward the door.

From:
Simone

To:
JT

There was another call from Italy? We can’t get a trace?

From:
JT

To:
Simone

Italy’s only a guess, since the signal is bouncing off satellites like crazy. Someone has something pretty high-tech to block our tracking software. It’s as good as ours.

Ce Ce stirred the concoction in the glass bowl very carefully, watching the clear liquid thicken into a jelly consistency. She glanced around her workroom and noted (for probably the hundredth time) that all of the talismans were hanging in their proper places: rosemary on the north wall, thyme on the east, sage on the south, and mint on the west. She’d become a little obsessive about the placement of the talismans ever since Monique had traded one out for a rubber chicken as a joke, and the three love spells Ce Ce had concocted after that had had disastrous results. (Although the banker who started the chicken farm seemed quite happy.)

The worn butcher block countertop where Ce Ce worked had been sprinkled with her own mixture of primrose, powdered olive, and crushed beeswax. She’d mixed the first set of ingredients the night before (thank goodness the berries were in season) and had set the bowl out beneath the full moon to absorb its powers. To this mixture, she added powdered lodestone, hematite, sea glass, and then aloe. She tried to ignore the incessant knocking on the door and Monique, on the other side, imploring Ce Ce to let her in.

“I won’t mess up this one, I promise,” Monique pleaded, as she hiccupped. The hiccups told Ce Ce her pudgy redheaded friend had hit her hidden flasks again.

“No way, honey. You just wait out there. I’m almost done.”

“What do you want me to do about the prayer group?”

“The what?” Ce Ce’s head whipped up from the bowl to the door; she couldn’t stop what she was doing to let Monique in—the timing of the addition of the last two ingredients was critical.

“Miz Maimee’s back and now she has her prayer group with her. She says God has called her to the Glock counter until you sell her one. And her prayer partners are laying hands on anyone who moves on that side of the store.”

Ce Ce eyed the mixture in her bowl, judging it time for the lavender as she called out to Monique, “Just let ’em be,
honey.” The last thing she needed was Maimee and her group even more upset, bringing strong, negative energy into the store. On the other hand, a little positive energy flow would be welcome. “Tell her I’ll be with her in a little bit.”

“Okay, but she says they’re doing some sort of cleansing prayer.”

“It’s all good, honey,” she told Monique as she added the hyssop, and then looked at the jar and couldn’t remember if she’d added it in already. There appeared to be more missing from the jar than she’d intended to take. Surely not. Surely she hadn’t added too much.

Heading toward the kitchen, ignoring Francesca’s knocks on Nina’s front door, Bobbie Faye was still steamed from her conversation with Cam
and
still humiliated from her previous argument with Trevor.

She fully intended on confronting him—and then the wonderful aroma permeating the kitchen overwhelmed her. There was the mouthwatering scent of bacon and mushrooms and chives and eggs and where on earth had he found this stuff? She was pretty sure Nina’s version of a “stocked kitchen” was a full drawer of take-out menus. As soon as she stepped through the doorway, Trevor set down a glass of orange juice on the granite bar in front of her; he stayed focused on his tasks, moving away from her in that tight t-shirt, maneuvering pans and easing around the room as fluid and beautiful as water flowing over stones. How was it that a man so lethal could simultaneously look so comforting?

The delicious saturation of flavors drenched the air, and the fact that
he’d
created them stunned her senses, and she drank the orange juice without thinking. As the cold tang hit her palate, something awful scratched at her memory. Something dark and wrong and deeply horrific and she shuddered and couldn’t quite place what it was, but she set the orange juice down as Trevor glanced up from the stove top. He stopped moving and focused completely on her.

“Did he upset you?”

“Who?” she asked, glancing back at the orange juice with an eerie feeling climbing her spine, reminding her of that weird, psychotic dream, and she shook it off and shifted her attention back to Trevor. “Cam?”

“You’re pale.” He plated the omelet and set it in front of the bar stool next to where she stood.

“Cam always manages to upset me.” She didn’t know why the orange juice bothered her, because it tasted fine. “That’s his Standard Operating Procedure.” She looked down at the plate and her stomach growled.

“Eat.” He slid the utensils in front of her. When she didn’t pick up the fork, he added, “Eating this in no way indicates that you’re not still angry with me.”

She sat down at the bar. “Nice try at the reverse psychology. You’re seriously deluded if you think I’m that easy.” She stared at the omelet; damn, there were two kinds of cheeses. Maybe even three.

“Sundance, in all of the history of women, you would be the last one that someone would label ‘easy.’ ”

“Good,” she said, then, “Wait.” He smiled. “I’m
not
going to be manipulated.”

“Okay.” He reached for the plate and Instinct took over and she grabbed it, protecting it, and he waited, his hand still on the rim.

“I never said I didn’t want it.”

“
Do
you want it?”

She eyed him, wary, unsure if they were still talking about the omelet. He snagged her fork with his other hand, cut the omelet, and fed her a bite. She should have been annoyed at his blatant manipulation, and she should have kept her lips closed, but Hunger vetoed and took over her mouth and she had to close her eyes once the food passed her lips because
oh. dear. Lord
. She had no idea anyone could do something so sublime to an omelet. She wasn’t even sure what he’d done, but it had melted in her mouth and she’d nearly had an orgasm. When she opened her eyes, he was clearly enjoying her response.

“You jerk,” she said, but it was hard to sound really angry
when she’d taken the fork and was stuffing her mouth with the next bite. When he arched an eyebrow, quizzically, she angled the utensil toward the omelet. “You’re not playing fair.”

“I have no intention of playing fair.”

She wanted to take that growling statement and the wave of sexual energy emanating from him as purely flirting, but Trevor was the kind of guy who’d managed to out-strategize people while undercover—even people prone to tremendous paranoia, like the mob types he’d indicated he’d had to associate with in the past. Why in the hell would she be any less of an obstacle if he thought she had something he needed, and any less deserving of exploitation?

His goal was to find the diamonds and to trap this MacGreggor guy, not have a real relationship with her, and it was time for her to learn a little self-preservation for a change. She’d seriously screwed up her life trusting two different guys in the past—she just flat didn’t need the third strike. She wasn’t entirely sure she could handle it, and she pushed that thought away, because she’d have to investigate the
why
of that notion, and there was no way she was going to do that. Not with him standing there looking like Sex Incarnate and
feeding
her, for crying out loud. Good freaking grief, he was
smart
.