Slay it with Flowers (22 page)

Back at the apartment, the answering machine was beeping, so Nikki hit it, and we listened. There was a rustling noise, like rough cloth being drawn over the mouthpiece. Then a gravelly male voice spit out, “Stay away from the Emperor’s Spa. You don’t know who you’re up against.”

The line went dead, and I went cold. Now they even had my phone number.

Nikki turned big eyes on me. “Did you hear that?”

Of course I heard it. What a silly question. Couldn’t she see my hands shaking?

“Stay away from the spa,” Nikki repeated, as if that menacing voice wasn’t already echoing in every nook and cranny inside my skull. “Isn’t that what we’ve been telling you?”

I sank down onto the sofa, which was about all I could do since my knees seemed to have suddenly become filled with whipped cream. “I think the bigger question here, Nikki, is who left the message.”

“A no-brainer, Ab. It’s one of those guys you caught on camera. I only hope you’re getting
their
message.”

“One of the guys I caught on camera. That’s your answer for everything lately, Nik, and frankly, it’s getting on my nerves.”

There was a giant silence in the room, and I had caused it. “I didn’t mean that,” I said, dropping my head in my hands. “I’m rattled and I shouldn’t be taking it out on you.”

Nikki sat beside me and threw an arm around my shoulders. “I understand, Abby. The last time there were nasty messages on the machine someone tried to kill you. I’d be rattled, too.”

That’s why Nikki and I have always gotten along. No matter what stupid things came out of our mouths, we knew that underneath we respected each other’s feelings. “Just so you know, Nikki, I
am
getting the message, loud and clear. Something illegal is going on at that spa or my interest in it wouldn’t have stirred up such concern.”

“Which is why you need to stay away and let your reporter friend take it from here.”

“You’re one hundred percent right. What do you say we grab a bite of lunch and get this lock installed?”

That proved to be a lot harder than it sounded. First, Nikki was not mechanically inclined, so me reading the directions and her trying to follow them didn’t work. Second, although I was more mechanically inclined than Nikki, I was certainly no “Helpful Hardware Man.” Third, when neither one of us understood what we were doing, trying to do it together was a mistake.

“I don’t see the little screw they show in this picture,” Nikki said at one point.

“I told you, it’s
this
one.” I held it up for her to see.

“It’s
not
that one. That’s part F. See right here in the instructions? It has a long tail.”

“Screws don’t have tails.”

“Then what do you call this long thing hanging from the head?”

“Not a tail,” I muttered, trying to get the drill bit to stay in the teeth.

An hour later we had managed to drill a hole through the door from front to back. After two hours of struggling to get the lock to fit inside the hole, we gave up.

“I can call Mr. Bodenhammer,” Nikki volunteered.

“He just finished cleaning our window. He’ll charge us.”

“Then we’ll have to let Marco do it.”

“Marco will never let me forget it.”

“What do you suggest we do?” she snapped. Even Nikki ran out of patience once in a while.

I stepped back and studied our handiwork, which basically consisted of an oddly shaped hole in a mutilated black door. “Let’s cover it up until we can get more advice from the hardware man.”

“Cover it with what? Masking tape? Don’t you think Marco will notice?”

I pondered the problem for a few minutes, then came up with the perfect solution. “Do you still have that black eye shadow you wore at last year’s Halloween party?”

While Nikki ran to dig it out of her makeup basket, I packed the hole with a paper towel, then cut strips of masking tape to fit over the circle, just barely overlapping the edges. Onto that I applied her black eye shadow, blending it into the black door until it was barely noticeable.

“I can still see it,” Nikki said, crouching down in front of the door knob.

“You won’t if the only light source are candles.”

We swept up the mess, hid all the lock parts in a paper bag, and shoved it into the small utility closet next to the door. By six forty-five that night the curtains were drawn against the late summer sun, a half dozen candles flickered romantically in the living room, our card table had been dressed with a colorful scarf and set with our bargain basement white plates, and Nikki had gone on her date. I had donned a pair of black mules, black slacks, a yellow V-necked top, black dangle earrings, and finished it with a light peach-vanilla scented perfume. Men seemed to go for pie aromas.

At exactly seven o’clock the doorbell rang. I looked through the peephole, then unlocked the door and opened it with a smile. There stood Marco, dressed in a black polo shirt, light gray slacks, and black mocs, a brown paper grocery sack in his arms. He looked so domestic that I wanted to hug him. Then again, he looked so damn sexy that I wanted to attack him. Simon took care of that for me.

Marco had barely had a chance to step inside when the white fur ball came loping up the hallway, skidded to a stop, and stood on his hind legs to swipe at the sack.

“Must be meat in there,” I said. I took advantage of the distraction to shut the door and sweep the sack out of Marco’s arms, trusting that he would follow me to the kitchen, and the hole in the door would go undetected.

But it was Simon who followed, then stood at my feet meowing until I shooed him away.

“Is your electricity out?” Marco asked from the hallway, obviously noticing the abundance of candles.

“What you’re looking at is ambiance.” I peered into the sack and removed a tall bottle of wine. “An Australian Shiraz. I’ve been dying to try this. What else did you bring?”

Marco took the bottle from my hands and propelled me from the kitchen, just as I’d hoped he would do. “This is my dinner. Stay out and let the master chef create.”

“Don’t you want to know where I keep the pans?”

“Sunshine, your kitchen is six feet by twelve feet. I’m betting I can hunt down those rascals in less than two minutes. Where’s the light switch?”

He flicked on the kitchen light, which gave me a moment of panic until I saw that the entryway was still in shadow. “Come on, Simon,” I said. “We know when we’re not wanted.”

I hefted the cat over my shoulder and left, plunking us both down on the sofa. I had to chuckle as Marco banged cabinets, rattled pans, and even hummed. He was so busy playing chef that he had completely forgotten about the lock. What a genius I was.

Simon spotted a chewed straw wedged between the sofa cushions and dragged it over to drop in my lap. “I’ll play on one condition,” I said quietly, holding his little face between my hands, “that you disappear when things start to heat up.”

He butted my chin with his cold nose, which was his way of saying,
“I have no idea what you just said, but if you’ll toss that straw I’ll agree to anything.”

On my twenty-first toss Marco came out of the kitchen carrying two glasses of wine. He handed me a glass and took a seat beside me. “A little predinner libation.”

“Here’s to the master chef,” I said, lifting my glass to his.

There was a gleam in his eyes that promised good times ahead. My insides tingled expectantly as we sipped, locking gazes over the rims. Suddenly a heavy object hurtled itself into my lap, nearly spilling my wine. “Simon!” I cried, pushing the cat to the floor.

Marco reached down to rub his furry head. “I need to get back to the kitchen anyway.”

As soon as he was gone, I shook my finger at the cat. “We had a deal and you blew it. To the bedroom, welcher.”

To show me what he thought of my deal, Simon sat on his haunches and began to clean his face. Determined to show him who was boss, I reached down for him, but he dodged my hands and took off up the hallway. I chased him into my room, tossed in his plastic straw toy, and shut the door. A deal was a deal.

The aroma wafting from the kitchen was so intoxicating that I wandered over to stand in the doorway, appreciating the excellent distribution of male muscle as Marco worked.

“When you’re done ogling, would you find a platter?” he asked over his shoulder. “The food is ready.”

“I wasn’t ogling. I was merely standing at the ready.” I dug out an oval platter and held it as Marco slid two perfectly sauteed chicken breasts onto it, then scooped up a brown sauce thick with carrot and celery pieces, bits of ham, and thin, golden onion slices. Beside it he put a mound of rice pilaf. I was quite impressed.

“Where did you learn to cook?” I asked as we took our seats.

“From my
mama.
”

My fork came to a halt centimeters from my taste buds, which were drooling in anticipation. “Did you just say
mama
with an Italian accent?”

“Old habit.”

I bit into the moist, tasty chicken and sighed as I chewed. “Well, thank your mama for me because this is heavenly. Why didn’t you want to make it at your apartment?”

“Because Mama is staying with me temporarily,” he said with a grim look.

“I see. You were afraid that after meeting me, she would hound you about getting married.”

“No, she’s entertaining a gentleman tonight and told me to get lost.”

Oh, well. One can always dream. I raised my wineglass and toasted his mother.

As we ate, we talked about the state of the downtown shopping area and debated whether American automakers would ever come out with a car that ran totally on hydrogen. We finished our meal without once discussing either the murder investigation or the spa, which was exactly what I’d planned. I didn’t want him lecturing me on staying out of trouble, which might remind him of the lock. Plus I was hoping for a little snuggle time on the sofa, so I wanted to keep him in good humor.

“Since you cooked, I’ll clean up,” I offered, whisking our plates off the table. “I believe in an equal division of labor.”

“Works for me.” Marco loaded his arms with bowls and followed me, then returned to the living room with his glass of wine to watch a baseball game on TV.

I was in the middle of scrubbing the last pan when the phone rang.

“Want me to get it?” Marco called.

“Would you, please?”

I heard him say hello, then there was a long silence, then I heard him say, “I’ll tell her.” Then he hung up.

“Who was it?” I called.

“Bill Bretton. He said he won’t be able to make it Monday.”

Rats. I’d hoped to get those photos out of my desk and the problem off my shoulders. “When did he say he’d come?”

“He didn’t say.”

I stopped scrubbing again. Why hadn’t Bill made new arrangements? Had he lost interest? I’d have to call him on Monday and find out what was going on.

“Do you know you have a message on your machine?” Marco called.

“I must have been in the shower. Go ahead, play it.”

Marco punched a button and suddenly that menacing voice hissed its warning. Damn. I’d forgotten to erase it. I waited a moment, then peeked around the corner. “Oh yeah, I forgot about that message. Want more wine?”

Marco came toward me, glowering. “You forgot about a threat?”

I backed all the way up the hallway to the front door, where I smiled up at him with all the innocence I could muster. “It was probably a prank call.”

“A prank call?” He braced an arm on the door. “Sunshine, you are the all-time champion of denial.”

Boy, was he wrong, because I sure wasn’t going to deny the strong attraction I was experiencing at that moment. The heat from Marco’s body was melting my ribs, among other areas, and those sexy dark eyes of his were carving little red hearts in my soul. I put my hands on the front of his shirt, feeling the hardness of his chest beneath my fingers. A pulse throbbed in the smooth skin of his neck. “Are you finding this as much of a turn-on as I am?” I asked him.

His eyes narrowed. “Does it look like I’m turned on?”

“I’m not sure I’d recognize it if you were.”

He tilted my chin and gazed into my eyes. “Did you hear what the man said? Stay away from the spa. Do you get the message? If you keep pursuing this, you’re putting yourself in danger.”

I swallowed. Marco was dead serious. “I get it.”

“I want you to promise to stay away.”

I stared straight into those pools of dark chocolate. “Okay.”

“Say it,” he said huskily.

I said it so softly, he could probably feel the words better than hear them. He dipped his head down until his lips were a hair’s breadth from mine and said, “Think you’ve got it now?”

I had it, all right, but if he didn’t kiss me that instant I was going to lose it. I curled my toes, closed my eyes, and took the brakes off my pulse, which immediately shot into the stratosphere.
Get ready, Abby.