Spying in High Heels (15 page)

Mama gave me a slow once-over. Her gaze lingered on my hemline. Self-consciously, I gave it another tug south.

"Nice legs," she said.

"Uh…" I looked to Ramirez for an appropriate response. No help there. He crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back on his heels, a smirk pasted on his face that clearly said this was payback for following him around town.

"Thanks," I finally managed.

"I used to have legs like that," Mama went on. "Before I had babies. Babies ruin your legs. Varicose veins, cellulite. It's not pretty. You have any babies?"

"No. No babies." Yet.

"Good for you. Keep those legs as long as you can. I had my first baby when I was seventeen. How old are you?"

"Um. Twenty-nine," I answered. Only it sounded

more like a question, as if I was hoping I'd gotten the right answer on the pop quiz.

"Oh." Mama leaned in and pseudo-whispered, "Are you barren?"

I think I heard Ramirez snort.

"No! No, I'm not barren. I'm just… I have a job."

"Oh. Well, then. Good for you. A career girl. I always wanted to be a career girl. I thought I'd make a really good firefighter."

I tried not to laugh as I pictured Mama's portly frame hauling someone from a burning building.

"So what do you do?" she asked.

"I design shoes."

Mama looked down at my acrylic chunky heels.

"Not these," I added quickly. "I design children's shoes."

Mama perked up. "See, she does like children. This one's good. I like her." Mama gave Ramirez a pat on the cheek.

"Glad you approve," he said. He really was enjoying this too much.

Mama gave me a pat on the cheek too, for good measure. Then she gestured to Ramirez. "Make him use condoms. You gotta keep those legs as long as you can."

I think I swallowed my tongue. I looked to Ramirez to dispel his mother's idea that we needed condoms. But he was trying too hard not to laugh.

"Well," Mama said to the room at large, "tamales are ready, let's eat."

I blinked hard, watching Mama's stout frame waddle back into the kitchen. The Aunts followed as one, Billiejo bringing up the rear with one last glare at me over her shoulder.

I was still contemplating whether it was too late to bolt for the door when I felt Ramirez's breath on my neck.

"I told you you didn't want to come in here," he murmured. He shot me a grin to rival the Cheshire cat's as he grabbed my hand and led me into the kitchen.

I was so going to get him for this.

Chapter Ten

Ramirez led me outside to a spacious backyard that made my paltry window box of geraniums look downright pathetic. Three picnic-style tables were set up on the lawn, covered in brightly colored tablecloths. Mismatched chairs and benches surrounded them, while piles of fragrant tamales, chilies and empanadas sat atop. Strings of lights had been hung between the tall oak trees, and a battered pinata swung from one of the lower branches. A handful of dark-haired children sat beneath it, lollipop sticks protruding from their mouths.

"Uncle Jack," one of them yelled, flying at Ramirez. Two more little girls followed suit and soon Ramirez had sticky-fingered rugrats affixed to both his legs.

My turn to smirk a little. "Uncle Jack" was about the last role I'd have pictured Ramirez in. But, to his credit, he didn't even grimace as one of his nieces made a chocolate-covered handprint on his white shirt.

Mama came out carrying another tray of tamales and sat down on one of the benches. This seemed to be the signal, as suddenly a swarm of people appeared from nowhere. Billiejo and three other young women came out of the sliding glass doors, followed by the man I'd seen dozing in the La-Z-Boy. Two men came around the side of the house, both with an unmistakable resemblance to Ramirez, though one was a little pudgier and the other wore his dark hair in a ponytail at the nape of his neck.

Mama shoved a plate into my hands, with a commanding, "Eat, eat," and under her watchful eye I piled one of everything on my plate, for fear of offending her. (I figured my outfit was offensive enough for one evening.)

As we sat down to eat, two more men emerged from the house, guitars slung over their shoulders as they converged on the food, laughing, talking, and generally adding to the roar of voices that seemed to surround me.

Now as I may have mentioned, my grandmother is Irish Catholic. Before my grandfather bought his one-way ticket to the gates of St. Peter, we used to spend every Christmas Eve at their house. All seven of my aunts and uncles, all nineteen of my cousins, and all forty gazillion of their little darlings ran around the house in plaid Christmas dresses and tiny red bow ties. So I'm no stranger to big families. But I had never in my life encountered people who could talk so loudly and yet eat so much, all at the same time. I was in awe.

And if I'd hoped to fade into the background, I was sorely disappointed. Mama pulled me down on the bench beside her and proceeded to introduce me to each and every family member in attendance. I met Ramirez's brothers, Bart, Dillon, Marshal, and Clint. Along with Billiejo there was Clint's wife, Amelia, Bart's wife, Maria, and cousins, Mary Jane and Jose. In addition to the ten or so nieces and nephews whose names I knew I wouldn't remember past dessert.

While their volume began to rival that of Mulligan's amateur hour, somehow, instead of feeling lost in the crowd, their noise was actually kind of comforting. Like a big warm blanket filtering out the rest of the world and all its problems. I swear for a half a second I forgot everything else that had gone on today and actually began to relax as Mama shoveled a second helping onto my plate.

"I like to see a girl eat," Mama said with approval as I dug in. "So many of these young girls are too skinny. Not like you. You got some meat on you."

I paused, forkful of empanada halfway to my mouth. Maybe I should have quit at two. "Thanks," I answered uncertainly.

"Of course, my Jackie, he likes a woman with some curves."

Jackie? Too cute. I looked across the table at Ramirez, eating mole enchiladas with one hand while jiggling a toddler in bright pink ruffles on his knee.

"Can I ask you a question, Mrs. Ramirez?"

"Call me Mama. Everyone calls me Mama."

"Okay…" I hesitated. "Mama." I felt funny calling someone else's mother "Mama." Especially if that someone's mother was under the false impression I was dating her son. But I couldn't very well tell her I was tailing him around, now that I'd eaten her homemade empanadas. Ramirez had me over a barrel and by the way he kept glancing across the table and flashing that dimple at me, I think he knew it too.

"What do you want to know, dear?"

"What
does fregadita
mean?" I asked.

Mama looked thoughtful for a moment. "It means little pain in the backside. Why?"

I resisted the urge to toss an empanada at Ramirez while he was holding a child. "No reason," I said instead.

"It's such a nice night. I'm glad Jackie could make it. You know, the weather man, he say it was going to rain."

"It never rains in L.A."

"That's what I said. But that newscaster, he say rain. I knew he was wrong. Mama knows." She nodded sagely at me and I couldn't help but start to like her.

After we'd been fully stuffed with Mexican sweet breads, cinnamon rolls, and sugar cookies with little green sprinkles on top, the guitar slingers tuned up their instruments and began playing a slow, soft rhythm. It was soothing and, along with the two servings of spicy food settling in my belly, left me feeling full and content. Dare I say, almost peaceful?

A state which ended with a jolt as I felt a warm hand land on the small of my back.

Ramirez leaned down and whispered, "Let's dance."

I thought about protesting as he grabbed my hand and led me to the lawn where Clint and his wife were already swaying to the music. But then again, he was a cop and it didn't seem wise to tick him off. (It had nothing to do with the way his deep voice so close to my ear produced animal sex visions again. I swear!)

Ramirez slung one arm casually around my waist, taking my right hand in his as we swayed in time with the music. He was surprisingly graceful on his feet, moving almost like I'd imagine that long, sleek panther on his arm would. Dancing with him suddenly made me feel like Ginger Rogers. It was nice.

A little too nice. And, I noticed as that familiar heat began to pool somewhere south of my belly button, a little too intimate. A little too easy to get used to.

I cleared my throat, trying to come up with some mundane conversation to cool the heat wave flooding my body.

"So, uh, your sister has an unusual name. Why Billiejo?"

Ramirez smiled. "What, you think all Hispanic people should be named Jose or Maria?"

At the risk of being lumped in with grand dragons in white sheets, I resisted the urge to point out that there were, in fact, a Jose and a Maria in attendance. "No, no, I didn't mean that at all. It's, just, well, Billiejo isn't a name you hear every day in L.A. Maybe in the South. Or Texas. Or someplace, um, more cowboyish." Then I remembered the dozing man in the cowboy hat. "Not that there aren't Hispanic cowboys. I mean, I'm sure there are some Hispanic cowboys. It's just, they aren't named Billiejo. Well, except your sister. Who is clearly not a cowboy." I was dying here.

"Relax," he said, pulling me just a smidgen closer to him. "I'm just yanking your chain."

"Oh." I pretended I didn't notice the hormone signals my stupid body started flashing me as his hips touched mine. Didn't my body know this was a totally inappropriate time to be thinking of jumping some guy's bones?

Ramirez seemed unaware. Or maybe just a little too used to dancing with girls in hookerware.

"Billiejo," he continued, "is a character on
Petticoat Junction
. Bart's from
Maverick
. Marshal, well every TV western has a marshal. See a trend? When Mom and Dad moved here from Mexico in the 'sixties, Mom learned to speak English by watching those western shows on TV. She became a little attached to them."

"How'd you escape it?"

He flashed his white teeth at me. "Jackson Wyoming Ramirez."

"Ouch."

"Tell me about it."

"So what was it like growing up with so many siblings?"

"Crowded." He smiled. "I think I was fifteen before my mom finally stopped dressing me in hand-me-downs."

"You poor thing," I answered, appropriately horrified.

He laughed. One of those real-person laughs, not the smirky cop ones I'd gotten to know so well. Again I had a little talk with my body about those hormone signals.

"No pity, please, Miss Fashion Designer. Having older brothers had some advantages too. There was always a stack of
Playboys
under the mattress."

"I should have known you were one of
those
boys."

"Those boys?"

"I bet you looked up girls' skirts in class too."

The wicked twinkle in his eyes answered that question clearly enough.

"What about you? Something tells me you were no angel, Miss Girly Girl."

"I can't imagine what you mean."

"You strike me as the kind of girl who took her own peek in the boys' locker room now and then."

"It's the clothes. The spandex gives the wrong impression."

"Uh huh." He didn't believe that any more than he believed I'd go home and knit after this.

"So," I said, clearly changing the subject. "I think Billiejo doesn't like me much." I glanced across the lawn to find her still glaring, her arms crossed over her ample chest.

"She's just a little overprotective."

"Older sister syndrome?"

"Younger. By two years. She's the baby of the family, always following me and my friends around when we were young."

"Hmm. I bet she was a real
fregadita
." I let the word roll slowly off my tongue.

Ramirez's eyes crinkled at the corners. "You've been talking to Mama?"

"Uh huh. Pain in the ass, huh?"

"Relax. You're a cute little pain in the ass." He winked at me and I was rendered momentarily speechless.

"What about you," he asked. "Any annoying little sisters?"

Clearing my throat, I willed myself to get a grasp on the hormone thing. "No, I'm an only child. It's just been my mom and me growing up. Though she's getting married soon, so I guess our family's growing a little. Nothing like this, though." I gestured to the lawn, now full of adults and children alike. The cowboy was dozing again, this time leaning his folding chair against the sliding glass doors, his hat pulled low over his eyes. Mama was swaying her round body in time with the music, a contented smile on her face as she watched her children dance.

"Well, anytime you want to borrow a family for a while, you're welcome to mine. Though you might want to leave the hooker clothes at home next time." His smirk returned.

"Thanks for the tip, wise guy."

But the comment pulled me out of my empanada and guitar music stupor just enough to remember why I was dressed like Pretty Woman. To remember the unreal events of my evening thus far, and the five million loose ends of my life.

"You think they've found anything at the motel yet?" I asked.

"They'll call me if they do. In the meantime, just relax a little."

Relax. Right. The problem was I was getting
too
relaxed. With the abundant food, the warm company, the crowded, festive atmosphere of the backyard, I'd almost completely forgotten about Richard, Green-way and the whole mess. So what did that say about me? Did I really care so little about the man whose child I might be carrying that a plate full of empanadas and a cop with a sexy grin could make me forget him in the span of one evening?

But even as I was attacked with serious guilt (the likes of which I hadn't felt since I'd confessed to my grandmother I hadn't been to mass since Easter), I didn't let go of Ramirez's hand. I didn't step away, and I didn't protest when his arm curled around my waist, his hand resting on the small of my back. I was so going to hell, wasn't I?