Rest in Pieces (7 page)

“Please, it was a five. Weak.” But a dazed look had replaced his cocky smile.

“Who’s the terrible liar now?” Score one for the divorcee who’d been jilted by a cheating bastard of a husband. My red shirt and I still had it. I glanced down. This might not qualify as a boob shirt, but it definitely was a nipple shirt.

“You’re killing me with those.” His gaze dropped to the front of my shirt.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I arched my back in a fake stretch.

“Now you’re just being mean.” Slowly his gaze made it all the way to my face. He dropped a light kiss on my nose and then stood and called in the direction of Max’s bedroom, “Hey buddy, I’ll meet you outside.”

Talk about leaving me cold. “Now who’s the mean one?”

The cocky grin was back. “You’re even hotter in person than in my dreams.”

“You dream about me?” I bit my lower lip. He was too cute for my own good.

“Yes ma’am.” He leaned down and whispered close to my ear. “I’ve had a crush on you for years.”

Chapter 5

“Holy cow.” Haley fanned herself with one hand and managed the steering wheel with the other as I relayed the facts of my date last night. We were in Haley’s Range Rover, headed to Daman Rodriguez’s house. “I can’t believe he told you that he’s had a crush on you for years. That’s so sweet.”

“You think everything is sweet.” Monica stuck her head into between the driver’s and passenger’s seats. She’d failed to call shotgun before me and had lost out on the passenger’s seat. “He’s hot…really hot. You should totally jump on that.”

I bit my bottom lip in contemplation. “So does ‘jump on that’ take the place of ‘tap that’? I can’t be using the wrong phrase for sex. I’m a perfectionist.”

A snort came from Monica’s general direction.

I resented that snort. I could totally rock perfectionism once I got the hang of it. Trouble is, I’m a procrastinator, so perfectionism can wait until tomorrow.

“Speaking of hot.” Haley turned onto an oak–lined street that I’d never seen before. We were in the heart of Lakeside, skirting Lake Travis. The properties here started in the tens of millions for a fixer upper and went up from there. It was so far out of my price range that I never even ventured this close to the lake, partly for fear of being stopped by the local police because I drive a piece of crap. In this neck of the woods, driving a POS means you’re here to mow someone’s yard. There was nothing the patrol cops liked more than harassing the hired help.

I looked around. What I’d thought was a street was actually a driveway…to a really big mansion. Living in Lakeside, I’m used to the run–of–the–mill mansions. They usually have ten or so bedrooms, a six–car garage and a couple of guesthouses. But this mega–mansion made all those look like one–room shacks in the projects.

At its middle the building had five stories of Texas white limestone that tapered down to a modest two stories on either side. Lots of arched columns and balconies lined the front and sides of the enormous house, giving it a distinctly Texas look. If South Fork and the Alamo got together and had a big, fat baby, this would be it.

We pulled up to the circle driveway and parked in front of a ten–tiered terra cotta fountain that was larger than the swimming pool at the Lakeside Country Club. Not that I’d ever been swimming in the Lakeside Country Club’s pool, but I did walk by it once when Bessie stopped running right in front of the club’s gated entrance. Something about her gas tank being empty. Bessie needed feeding…Max always feeding…everyone was so needy.

“Who needs a house this big?” Monica looked as stunned as I’m sure I did. This was excessive in a town where excessive was the norm.

“He entertains a lot.” Haley put the car in park and turned off the engine.

“Who? A mid–sized country? This is bigger than the Hilton Garden Inn by the mall. I don’t know enough people to fill half this house, much less to invite to a party.” Monica and I were on the same page.

“The electric bill must be six figures a month.” Mine was two hundred dollars last month and I was having a hard time accepting that. It was winter–ish so I wasn’t even running the air conditioner all that much. How could Max and I possibly have used up two hundred dollars in electricity last month? That was it, I was going to stop cooking all together. Clearly warming stuff up in the microwave was using too much power.

“Daman hosts the winter cotillion here in his second ballroom.” Haley smiled as she opened the driver’s door and stepped onto the crushed granite driveway. “He always has it decorated like a Winter Wonderland.”

“It’s a shame he only lets you use the second ballroom instead of the first. You debutantes must feel like trailer trash. He probably decorates the first ballroom with diamonds.” Monica rolled her eyes. Well, I didn’t actually see her roll her eyes, but her tone strongly implied it. She jumped down onto the granite and closed her door.

I stepped out of the passenger’s seat and gravel crunched underneath my pale pink fake Uggs. I don’t think the boots actually have a brand name, but they were only twenty bucks at Marshalls so I had to have them. Wind rattled off the lake and cut right through my sweater. Today it was chilly and in the low fifties. By Central Texas standards, we were about to freeze to death.

One of the enormous wrought iron double front doors opened and an olive–skinned man with black hair stepped out. Deep dimples dented each cheek as he smiled at us. He bore a striking resemblance to Eddie Cibrian, only taller and more muscular. He waved, and diamond cufflinks glittered in the sunlight. His dark gray trousers and pressed white button down shirt seemed a tad formal for Saturday morning at home, but what did I know? Maybe all rich people dressed up while lounging on the sofa and watching Saturday morning cartoons. Maybe this was a Texas version of Downton Abbey. Why hadn’t his butler answered the door? Besides the gunsmithing, it really was his only job. Man, he’s lazy.

“Ladies, welcome to my home.” His accented English was downright sexy.

I’d expected a Mexican drug lord to look like Danny Trejo or a Hispanic Don Corleone, anything but a Latin soap star. It was disappointing. I glanced at his shoes. Black cowboy boots. My first thought was that he could have at least worn some expensive, cheesy Italian loafers. My second thought was that I really needed to stop stereotyping people. Everyone had a hobby; mine was prejudging people. The fact that I was usually wrong about them didn’t deter me one bit. I’m not a quitter.

“Damn.” Monica said under her breath. “I call dibs.”

After the shotgun incident, she’d stepped up her game.

“Daman. Thank you for letting us take advantage of your hospitality on such short notice.” Haley sauntered over to him.

I don’t think I’ve ever sauntered…possibly sashayed but never sauntered. Monica and I just plain walked up to the front door.

Daman Rodriguez up close was even better looking. His black–coffee eyes were surrounded by so many eyelashes that it looked like he was wearing eyeliner. A tiny scar creased his brow, which was more charming than dangerous.

“Absolutely. I’m always happy to help out a friend.” He leaned in and kissed her left cheek and then her right.

“Think it’s too forward of me to ask him to be the father of my future children?” Monica whispered as she shot him a stunning smile.

“If you don’t ask, the answer is always no.” I winked at her.

“Good point.” She nodded.

“These are my friends.” Haley stepped back giving us access to Daman. “This is Monica.”

Monica stuck her chest out and cooed. “It’s so good to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“All good I hope.” His gaze darted to me. “And this must be Mustang.”

Reluctantly, Monica stepped inside and out of the way.

“Nice to meet you.” I nodded.

He turned up the wattage of his grin and all the estrogen in my body drunk–dialed my brain. I opened my mouth to ask how the drug lord business was treating him, but thought better of it. Ben didn’t say it was supposed to be a secret, but I’m pretty sure it was implied. People should start stating the obvious instead going around implying all sorts of things.

“I believe that you were married to our former police chief.” Daman held out his hand for me to shake. I took it, but instead of the normal handshake he brought my hand to his lips and kissed the back. “Give him my best when you speak with him.”

Slowly, he released my hand.

“I don’t ever speak to him, but on the off chance that hell freezes over and I do, I’ll give him the message.” Was that TMI? Sometimes I have trouble with over sharing.

One corner of his mouth turned up, and damn if a third dimple didn’t pop out on his chin. Handsome men should have a two–dimple limit.

He stepped aside so that I could walk through the open door.

The interior of the house was breathtaking—literally, I sucked in a chlorinated, humid breath. The scent of roses fought with the chlorine in a battle for dominance, but I had to give it to the chlorine. There must be an indoor pool somewhere close.

The front entry way boasted off white, large travertine tiles set on the diagonal and a huge round Mexican table holding a gigantic floral arrangement. I leaned over to make sure it was real. Yep, nothing fake here.

I looked up.

Beyond the table two glass doors lead to an atrium with tropical plants surrounding an indoor swimming pool complete with two waterfalls and three hot tubs. The source of the chlorine. The pool was larger than most five star resorts could boast. Not that I’d been to any, but I had free cable thanks to Astrid’s love of reality TV.

Two staircases with ornate wrought iron rails—one on either side of the pool—spiraled up joining the five floors. Each floor was open to the pool below so that the floors appeared to be little more than a series of balconies. Sunlight streamed in from the roof, which appeared to be all glass.

A waterslide started at the fifth floor and swirled and looped all the way down to the pool. I hoped he had an elevator because climbing all those stairs just for a few seconds ride would suck.

“It sounds like you and your ex–husband aren’t on the best of terms.” Daman said.

I peeled my gaze away from the surroundings. “We aren’t on any terms, good or bad.”

New acquaintances always asked about my ex–husband. I never knew if it was to get the juiciest gossip or because they were making conversation or they didn’t know what else to say.

His gaze lingered on my face. “If he were my husband, I’d feel the same.”

Was I supposed to maintain eye contact, look away, or do something provocative? It’s not that I was socially awkward, it’s just that handsome men rarely lingered over any part of me. Usually, I attracted the wandering–eye types who live with their mother and smell like Fritos…well, except for Ben. He was cute.

“If he were your husband, that would be a horrible waste of a very handsome man.” Monica elbowed me to the side. She had mad elbowing skills. She’d spent four years as a Texas Roller Girl. Her name had been Monica the Masher. That always made me think of mashed potatoes. No idea why.

“Would you ladies care for something to drink?” He looked passed Monica and directly at me.

“A margarita would be wonderful.” Monica flipped her hair back flirtatiously and it thwapped me in the face.

Somehow guns and liquor seem like a bad idea.

“It’s like eight–thirty in the morning.” I said as I picked strands of Monica’s hair out of my lip gloss. She really needed to work on the hair flipping thing or at least make sure she was a good five feet away from the nearest bystander.

“How about coffee?” Daman put his hand in the small of my back and gestured to a silver tray holding a silver coffee pot, several china cups, croissants, bagels and kolaches. Did the mega rich have a stash of baked goods lying around on the off chance that hungry visitors would stop by?

Here was a lifestyle I could embrace: carbs and coffee, my two favorite things. My stomach rumbled loudly. Everyone turned to look at me.

“Sorry, no breakfast this morning.” Or any morning. I just couldn’t stomach the idea of eating until I’d been up for hours.

Daman picked up a plate and filled it with two croissants. “Here. You need to eat.”

He handed the plate to me and then picked up the coffee pot. “How do you take your coffee?”

Over solicitous much? In the last twenty–four hours, two hot guys seemed to be interested in me. It was nice…weird, but nice.

He was standing a little closer to me than was socially acceptable. In Texas, we like a good eighteen inches of personal space around us at all times. He’d cut that down to about half. He smelled fantastic—something citrusy and clean with something all man under it. I tried to suck in a discreet breath of air but ended up sounding like Darth Vader. Damn my nasal allergies.

“Thanks.” Did I really have to eat all of this food? I totally could, plus I didn’t want to offend a possible drug lord. In the movies, drug lords were mean and shot people for using prepositions at the end of sentences. I wasn’t sure what a real life drug lord would do if I didn’t eat his croissants—chop off my head, draw and quarter me, force me to sing show tunes? They were equally bad.

I stuffed half the croissant in my mouth, which was impressive because Daman Rodriguez liked his croissants almost as big as he liked his houses. I chewed and chewed half of the world’s largest croissant until I was finally able to swallow it. I shoved the other half in my mouth and chewed and chewed. It finally went down, too. My eyes were watering and I was breathing heavy. I didn’t know that eating could be considered aerobic exercise.

I glanced at Monica. She didn’t seem to be angry at not being Daman’s center of attention; in fact, she’d pressed her lips together trying not to laugh.

“Nicely done.” Daman grinned. “I like a woman who eats.”

“I didn’t think you were going to make it, but you pulled through in the end.” Monica slapped me on the back and then took the other croissant and nibbled it. “Impressive.”

Monica might have called dibs but she wasn’t holding that against me.

“Shall we head to the gun range?” Daman’s hand went to the small of my back again. There he was with the over solicitousness. Again, not that I didn’t like it, but it was weird.