Melissa Bourbon Ramirez - Lola Cruz 01 - Living the Vida Lola (27 page)

I thanked Neil for running the check. I hadn’t doubted Mary or Bonatee, but I had to be sure. “So she’s out as a suspect.” That left four likely motives. Did Zod, fearing implication in Garrett’s death, kill Emily to silence her, thereby saving his own ass? Or did Case do it for him to protect his son or his business investment or both? Or, if Emily had been blackmailing him, had Bonatee killed her to stop the threat? And finally, if Bonatee was pissed that Emily had kept his son from him, maybe he’d killed her out of revenge and to have custody of Sean.

There were too many questions, I thought, and in my gut I felt like I was still missing something big.

I
stood  in my  black-and-red sheer demi-bra with matching panties and frowned at the half dozen outfits scattered on my bed. What did I want to project with Jack tonight? Innocent virgin? Sultry temptress? Hmm. If the underwear fit…

The phone rang, and I answered with a clipped, “Yes?”

“What kind of greeting is that?” my mother demanded on the other end.

The kind that says I’m in a hurry and don’t know what to wear
. “Sorry, Mami.”

“Are you coming to Abuelita’s? Fish tacos tonight.”

“Not tonight. I have plans.”

Her tone became accusatory. “You have not been here in a week.”

“I’ll come by tomorrow, Mami. I’m going out to dinner.” I braced myself for the inquisition.

“Lunch tomorrow, then,” she said.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. Had I heard right? She wasn’t probing for information? Had the world turned upside down? “Okay.”

I hung up, feeling like the universe was a little off balance. Odd, but not my problem tonight. Back to my wardrobe
dilemma. I held up a T-shirt, looking at it in the mirror. My lip was as good as healed, and my other abrasions were barely visible at this point. The phone rang again. “I knew you couldn’t resist, Mami,” I said when I answered it.

Silence.

“Hello?” I said again. Still nothing. So she
could
wait till tomorrow. I pressed the
OFF
button, dropped the phone, and discarded the shirt. Way too casual—and it said nothing about wanting to be ravished. Which, I wasn’t ashamed to admit, I did want. Badly.

I rifled through the closet and pulled out a red sleeveless wraparound dress. I held it at arm’s length to take a good look. Hmm. It might work. Just the right combination of erotic and demure—in a
take me
kind of way.

The phone rang again. Jeez, couldn’t a girl get dressed in peace?

I pulled it out from under the discarded T-shirt and pressed
ON
. “Hello?”

“Dolores Cruz.”

My heart stopped for a second. The voice was low and raspy. I immediately went on alert. “Speaking.”

“Butt out, or next time, you’ll end up with more than a few scrapes.”

I dropped the dress. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve been lucky twice. Third time, it’ll be over.” Hostile and matter-of-fact. Definitely not a
Mister Rogers
voice.

My stomach clenched, and my palms started to sweat. I looked around, half expecting the boogeyman to jump out from behind my bed. “How’d you get this number?”

But the phone went dead.

I took a deep breath. I couldn’t even tell if the garbled voice had been a man or woman. How pathetic was that?

But whoever it was had done their job. I was spooked. If
they’d found my unlisted home number, how hard would it be to find my address? Hell, someone had been following me. They probably already knew where I lived.

Pacing the room in my underwear, I tried to control how freaked I was.
Cálmate
, Lola, I told myself. Think. Think. I’d scared someone enough to try to run me over outside My Place and lock me in a florist’s refrigerator. Maybe I
was
in the wrong profession. No way did I have a death wish.

But even the mere thought of quitting made my stomach knot. I was Lola, PI. This was my destiny.
Con cuidado
. That would just be my new mantra. I would do everything with extreme care.

I glanced at the clock. Six thirty. Argh! No time to dwell on it. I had a date—the perfect distraction. I was allowed a night off, wasn’t I? I just hoped I could turn my mind off.

I slipped into the wraparound red dress and added my stripper shoes—a perfect match, as it turned out. Sultry temptress all the way. I didn’t do anything half-assed.

Pulling the front strands of my hair back into a barrette, I left the rest down, running my fingers through it to fluff it out. I put on some fiery red lipstick then added big silver hoop earrings and studied the effect in the mirror.
Perfecta
. Jack wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off me. Which was just what I wanted. And needed.
Listo
. I was ready, baby.

“About time.” Antonio waited for me by the front door, my car keys in his hand.

“What are you doing?”

“I need your car. No rental yet.” He gave me a low whistle and a twisted grin that said he knew what I wanted out of this night with Jack. “Not exactly playing hard to get, eh?”

I punched him in the arm—for a lot of reasons, only one of which was actually related to what he’d said. “You can take my car, but I need it back in the morning.”

“Oh, planning an all-nighter, are we?”

I waggled my head. “No, smart guy. Jack can bring me home.”

The drive to Jack’s place—a loft apartment off J and Sixteenth—was a quick ten minutes. Antonio stopped in front of the building and let me out. I slammed the door, and he rolled down the window. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, sis.”

That left the field wide open. I smiled sweetly. “You mean you have boundaries?”

“Hell yes, I do. And her name is Reilly.”

Great. He’d said it. Now I knew for a fact that my friend would have a broken heart. “Reilly’s great. You should consider yourself lucky to have her attention.”

He peeled out in response. I took a quick look around to make sure no bad guys were lurking, ready to run me over. All clear. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and focused on the moment.

Jack was waiting for me.

I found his loft on the third floor, an envelope taped just under the peephole of the door.
Lola
was scrawled in thick black marker across the crisp white envelope.

I pulled out a half sheet of paper.

L—

Had to run out last minute to fax an article
.

Make yourself at home. I’ll be back by 7:15
.

—J

I stood there with my hands on my hips, feeling indignant. He’d be here for dessert, but not for the appetizer? What kind of girl did he think I was? And didn’t the guy have his own fax-copier-combo machine? What kind of reporter was he?

Still, I couldn’t help but look at this as a golden opportunity—an open invitation to nose around. If he knew
me better—knew that I’d started my snooping career back when I was a teenager, with him as my subject—he’d have thought twice about leaving me alone in his apartment.

His mistake.

I tried the doorknob. Unlocked—a bold move, especially downtown. “Jack?” I called as I entered, just to be sure. I stood inside the door, peered down the short hallway, and waited. Silence. He wasn’t here.

The hallway led into the kitchen. It was a warehouse apartment—sleek and stylish with fifteen-foot ceilings, concrete floors, and a concrete counter between the dining area and the kitchen. It totally fit Jack.

I braced myself for the discovery of dishes stacked in the sink, an overflowing garbage can, crumbs on the counter, and an unswept floor.

His kitchen was spotless.

I pulled open the stainless steel door of the refrigerator and stood back, trying to figure out what it all meant.

It held more food than mine. So he didn’t have an aversion to shopping. Good to know, but he was obviously too good to be true. He had to be hiding something.

Then I remembered. Oh yeah. He was hiding Sarah.

I went back to my perusal. A half-empty carton of low-fat milk and the expected bottles of beer lined the door compartment next to bottles of every imaginable condiment: mustard, ketchup, pickles, barbecue sauce, teriyaki sauce, even a raspberry chipotle sauce.

¡Dios mío
! Was he a metrosexual? Did I want a metrosexual? What the hell
was
a metrosexual, anyway? And could Abuelo ever accept one in
la familia
Cruz?

I let the refrigerator door close and leaned back against the bar, my head spinning. I was getting way ahead of myself. One night of salsa dancing didn’t mean he needed Abuelo’s
blessing. Anyway, he was Catholic. That was good enough for me.

I looked at the clock—7:05. Ten minutes before he’d be back. Just enough time to have a quick peek at the rest of the loft.

A small blond-wood table with two chairs on either side was centered just off the kitchen. A heavy black vase was in the middle, a spray of lavender roses fanning out of it. I moved on, concentrating on the details of the apartment. A shaggy gray area rug, a black leather couch, two chairs. A TV and stacks of books—John Grisham, classic sci-fi, a slew of nonfiction, and every book Dan Brown had written.

Two guitars—one acoustic, one electric—perched on a double stand in the corner. I vaguely remembered that he’d started playing guitar back in high school. I plucked the steel strings of the acoustic and my pulse kicked up. Who didn’t love a musician?

I kept walking, but my heart skittered to a stop when I caught sight of the foot of Jack’s bed. A thousand thoughts swerved around in my head at once, beginning and ending with the fact that someone was out to kill me, so what if this was my last night? I should make it a great one.

I had the right underwear on.

A blinding image of the two of us rolling around on his queen-size love nest flashed into my mind, and I felt dizzy.
¡Ay, Dios! Don’t make any sudden moves, and slowly, very slowly, turn away from the bed, Lola
.

But, of course, I couldn’t. If I wanted to do justice to my snooping, which of course I did, I
had
to tackle the bedroom. It was essential, really. Any PI worth her salt would leave no stone unturned. And hadn’t I vowed to take extreme care with everything I did?

I took a deep breath, but sidestepped at the last second, making a beeline for the bathroom instead. It was spotless,
like everything else. God, he was my dream man. How was I going to resist him?

Skeletons. He had to have something, anything that might help me keep my sanity tonight—I’d wanted him for too long to just lose control. The medicine cabinet. Of course. There were bound to be secrets in there. Advil, deodorant, cologne, toothpaste, condoms, a toothbrush—

My brain screeched to a halt and backtracked. Condoms? I jammed my hands on my hips. Why did he need condoms?

I took the box out to look more closely. Not just condoms. A
jumbo
-size box of condoms. My head started pounding. And it was open. I dropped it, the little compact packages spilling onto the counter. Shit!

As I pushed the packages into a pile and started returning them to the box, I registered the details.
TROJAN HER PLEASURE CONDOMS
. Twenty-four per box.

I froze. Whose pleasure had they assisted, damn it, and how many were missing? The guy was thirty-one, smart, charismatic, and gorgeous. There was no way he lived like a monk, but the thought of Jack touching another woman made my skin crawl, my heart go cold, and my fists clench. He was back in my life. I wanted him touching only me.

Blood pounded in my temples. With obviously no other alternative, I spread the little packets back out onto the counter and hunched over as I counted. Four, six, eight, ten, twelve, fourteen, sixteen, eighteen, nineteen—That was it. Nineteen. Five missing.

I shoved the box back into the medicine cabinet and tried to calm down. Damn. This was bad.

Maybe he hadn’t changed. Maybe he was more than willing to go from Sarah to me without missing a beat. No matter how I tried to rationalize living out my fantasy, I was
not
a one-night stand.

Back to the bedroom. A deep brown down comforter draped over the bed. Two pillows lined the head, each encased in beige pillowcases. No frills, no extra pillows, no throws, no evidence that a woman frequented Jack’s bed. Hmm.

He had area rugs, a computer, about twenty skinny notepads, everything all neatly ordered. I knelt down and peered under the bed. Not even a scrap of discarded lingerie shoved underneath in a fit of passion.

Five used condoms, I reminded myself.

In need of some perspective, I pulled out my cell phone and punched in a phone number. “What’s wrong with Jack?” I demanded when Coco answered.

“Lola?
¿Cómo?
”

“Jack Callaghan. What’s wrong with him?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Why isn’t he married? Shouldn’t he at least have a girlfriend?”

“He’s not the marrying kind,
chica
. You should know that.”

Did that matter to me? “He’s not the same guy he was in high school.”

“Okay, so then why are you calling me?”

Good question. “He has—” I lowered my voice, guilty over my snooping. “—an open box of condoms.” I paused for emphasis, in case she didn’t see the gravity of the situation. “And some have been used.”

She sucked in a loud breath. “
¡Ay, Dios!
Alert the media. Call Cristina. Call Oprah.” She gave an exasperated sigh. “Jack’s a guy, Lola. And—oh no—he practices safe sex.”

Well, when she put it
that
way… Maybe I was overreacting, but I kept talking. “He’s a neat freak. He’s perfect. He’s got to be hiding something.”

She groaned. “Where are you, Lola?”

I dropped my voice and sneaked a look around. “I’m at his apartment. I only have a minute.”

“What, are you in the bathroom? Do you have the water running so he doesn’t hear you on the phone?”

Oh, she was a riot. And not too far off the mark. “Do you think he could be hiding something?”