Unplugged (19 page)

Rivera was just raising his hand to knock again. I shrieked, scuttled backward, and clasped my towel against my chest like a shield.

He lifted a brow as if trying to judge my level of rationality. “You ready?”

My bottom was pressed against the vanity. “For what?”

The scar at the right corner of his mouth twitched. But his eyes remained steady. “I was thinking breakfast?” He left the statement kind of open-ended, like a question.

All the air had been sucked out of the bathroom. We stared at each other.

“Oh.” When I found my voice, it didn’t sound like my own. “Sure. Yeah. Just let me . . .” I took a tentative step, trying to skirt around him. He stepped aside just as I did the same thing. Unfortunately, we headed in the same direction. Despite my attempt to cover as much flesh as humanly possible, the towel had slipped a little. I was squeezing my arm tight against my torso. His gaze dropped. Mine did the same. My boobs were pressed together like Pillsbury’s finest and spilling over the top of the towel.

I raised my gaze. He raised his, slowly.

“Bribing an officer of the law comes with a sizable penalty, McMullen,” he said.

My mouth dropped open. I tried to step around him. He tried to step out of the way. Maybe. Anyway, we bumped again. I bumbled against him, squeezed my arms harder against my chest, and glanced at his face.

His lips curved up with dark amusement. It was about as close as he ever came to giddy giggles.

I glared, shoved him out of the way, and stormed past.

It only took me a couple of minutes to dress. It wasn’t as if I was trying to impress him. The man was Satan’s hand . . . child . . . hand. . . . The man was Satan.

He turned from the stove as I entered the kitchen. His eyes roved over me. They’re Spanish dark, but there was a funky light behind them. I resisted tugging my sweater up. Not that it was low-cut or anything. Okay, it was kind of low-cut . . . and clingy. But it was one of the few sweaters that had survived my exodus from Schaumburg, and it was chilly outside. November in L.A. Brrrr. Couldn’t have been more than seventy-five degrees. On Sunset Boulevard the nouveau riche would be donning their furs.

“You look better,” he said.

I didn’t know if I should thank him or stab him in the eye. I settled for taking the plate he handed me.

A trio of something that looked like crepes sat in the middle of the dish. A slice of orange was twisted into a spiral and stood upright beside them.

I blinked stupidly as I sat down at the table. He took a wineglass out of the freezer, filled it with grape juice, and set it beside my plate.

I stared at him, dumbfounded. He shrugged. “Mamá always wanted a girl.”

As he turned away I couldn’t help but notice she hadn’t even gotten close. His hips were narrow, his ass as tight as a California plum.

“It would be more appetizing if you had some cilantro,” he said.

I doubted it. His ass was pretty much perfect. But I jerked my gaze to my meal just as he turned toward me. My fork was already in my hand. Like a Boy Scout. Always prepared. “What are these?”

“I call them tortillas locas.”

“Seriously?”

“If I wanted to kill you I’d think of a more expedient method.”

“Huh?” I couldn’t get past the fact that Rivera could cook. It defied all kinds of logic. I didn’t even know he could eat.

“I’m not trying to poison you,” he said.

“Oh.” I nodded, then dizzily cut off the end of a tortilla and tasted. I felt my salivary glands buzz to life and my brows shoot skyward. Suddenly, I was glad Jed hadn’t shown up to shoot me dead. Luckily, Rivera had already turned back toward the stove and didn’t witness my unadorned adoration.

He settled into the chair on the far side of the table with his own plate, and took a sip of his grape juice. Chilled . . . in a wineglass.

“I met a cop once,” I said, my voice monotone. “Name was Jack Rivera. Any idea what might have happened to him?”

He didn’t bother to glance up. “Good-looking guy? Charismatic as hell?”

“You got the hell part right.”

The corner of a grin tugged at his lips. “I’m just trying to keep you off balance until you decide to tell me the truth.”

My stomach quirked a little. “About what?”

He sipped his juice. “Right now I’ll settle for just about anything.” His gaze shifted to mine again, devil dark and unwavering.

“Okay.” I gave him a nod and tried not to melt under his gaze. Latin men should either be married or locked up. Possibly both. Both are good. “The tortilla thingies are excellent.”

“The trick’s in the sauce.”

“What?”

“I added some Chablis.”

“Oh.” I wrenched my eyes from his, took another bite, remembered I had missed supper, and considered inhaling the rest. It might have seemed uncouth. I took a third minuscule amount. “So your mother taught you to cook?”

“Give her a tomato and a stick of celery, she can make you a three-course meal.”

There was pride in his voice and a soft sort of reverence. Lieutenant Jack Rivera, momma’s boy. Life was weirder than shit. “So . . .” I cleared my throat. “You don’t have any sisters?”

“No brothers, either.”

Even the grape juice tasted better than normal. Holy crap. How do you improve grape juice? “Why is that?”

He shrugged. “Could be I was as much trouble as a whole houseful of kids.”

I could imagine him as a little boy. I don’t particularly like kids. They tend to drip from every possible orifice and smell like things gone bad. But he would have been a cute little bugger.

“So you haven’t changed,” I said.

He’d already finished his meal and leaned back to study me. “Some parts have.”

I caught his gaze, then skittered my eyes back to my meal. I couldn’t get a bead on this guy. Was he trying to seduce me or get me hanged? Or both? Possibly both. Holy crap.

“I was told . . .” I stopped, remembered my source had been his ex-wife, whom I had met under rather false pretenses, and tried again. “I heard your father was in politics.”

He nodded. “A senator.”

“Is that good?”

“If you’re a special interest group or have funds in a Swiss bank account.”

“Am I to understand that you don’t like him very—”

“Listen!” He leaned abruptly across the table toward me.

Uh-oh. Good cop gone.

“Much as I enjoy reminiscing about my familial roots, I think it’s time we get down to business. Don’t you?”

I hadn’t finished my tortillas yet. Surely I deserved a last meal. “What business?”

“What the hell were you doing last night?”

I shook my head. “Whatever are you . . . ?” Oh, crap. I sounded like Penelope Pitstop. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about a dead guy, a shot-up car, and your damned wallet.” He raised the thing like a smoking gun.

“I told you, I don’t have any idea how it got there. Is it my fault it was stolen?”

“Damn—” he began, then gritted his teeth, leaned back in his chair again, and folded his arms across his chest. “Okay, tell me your story. But if you lie to me . . .” He shook his head. “Swear to God, McMullen, I won’t be this pleasant when you’re in front of a judge.”

I felt my hand shake. I set the fork carefully on my plate, linked my fingers across my lap, and licked my lips. I really wanted to eat the tortillas. But I’d kind of lost my appetite. And that made me mad. So I fluffed my dignity and gave him a hard look in the eye. “I really don’t think it’s any of your concern how I spent—”

“God damn it!” The table jumped like a trampoline when he slapped it with his palm. I jerked in tandem.

“Okay! Okay! You don’t have to take it out on the furniture.” My head was spinning. What now? Run like the wind? Lie through my teeth? Tell the truth? Stall? Yep.

I stroked the unoffending table. “I bought it at that little flea market in Culver City. And it wasn’t cheap. I’m not on a government salary, you know. Can’t afford to buy new furniture whenever some hard-nosed—”

“McMullen.” His voice was low and deep and promised unpleasantries to come.

I swallowed, lifted my chin, and honed haughty to a fine point. “I was out with a friend last night.”

“A friend.”

“Yes.” Dad would have called my tone prissy and threatened to warm my bottom with his belt. Elaine might have used the word “constipated.” “I didn’t want to tell you . . . knowing how you feel about me.”

Judging by his expression, he felt like throttling me. But apparently he wasn’t the kind who wanted to discuss his deepest emotions.

“Go on,” he said—and rather coldly, I thought.

“I dined with an acquaintance.”

“What time?”

“Six o’clock.”

“With who?”

“Whom,” I corrected.

He showed his teeth.

I fiddled with my fork and gave him a snooty glance. “I don’t care to get him involved.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

I sharpened snooty into downright mean. It might not have been up to snuff, considering my knees were knocking on the legs of my flea market table.

“What’s his name, Chrissy?”

I pursed my lips and glanced into my living room as if I were trying to decide whether or not to tell him the truth. But I was pretty busy holding my bladder. “I know how you get, Rivera. I don’t want you bothering him.”

“Bothering him?” His eyes glowed like a werewolf’s, although I have to admit I’m using some imagination here. I mean, I’ve dated some weird-ass men, but most of them only had the usual amount of hair. And hardly any of them howled at the moon. “When have I ever bothered anyone?”

“You’re bothering me right now,” I said placidly.

He smiled. To say there was no warmth in it would have been a gross understatement. But “glacial” might have come close.

“And remember Solberg?” I asked. “You nearly gave him a coronary.” I tugged the peel off my orange slice for something to do. “Perhaps that’s why he’s missing. Because he—”

“Who was the lucky guy, McMullen?” he asked.

“Listen, I don’t—”

He leaned across the table. I leaned back.

“Okay, his name is Ross. You satisfied?”

“Ross who?”

What now? What now? What now?
“It doesn’t matter. If you don’t believe me, you can contact the restaurant we patronized. I’m sure they’ll remember us.”

“You dance nude on the table or something?”

I tried another glare. It was getting there. “Ross happens to be a very attractive man.”

“Is he?”

“And successful.”

“You sleep with him?”

I jerked to my feet. “I think we’re done here, Lieutenant.”

He remained where he was. What the hell was I supposed to do now? Call the cops? It seemed a little redundant.

“What’d you do after dinner?”

I licked my lips and glanced longingly toward the door. I was a fast eater and a whiz at short division. But I wasn’t all that speedy at hoofing it.

“We went to the Four Oaks for a drink,” I said.

“They don’t serve drinks at the restaurant you . . . patronized?”

“I like the atmosphere of the Oaks. Elegant but comfortable.”

“And that’s where you left your purse . . . unattended.”

I nodded. The movement was surprisingly difficult to perform while continuing to breathe. “I forgot all about it.”

“Who can blame you, with a hunk like Ross.”

I spread my hands and gave him a “Well, there you go” expression.

“So how long were you absorbing the rarified ambience of the Oaks?”

“Not long. As I said, only a few minutes.”

“You and ol’ Ross think of better things to do, did you?”

I gritted my teeth. “As matter of fact, we did.”

He stared at me, his eyes lazy and mocking. “So the dearth has finally ended?”

The sexual reference was not lost on me.

“Get out,” I said.

“You have to carry him into your bedroom like Solberg, or was he able to make it under his own steam?”

I felt my nostrils flare. Maybe I hadn’t had sex for half a decade, but that didn’t give him the right to take cheap shots. “He could beat your ass to a pulp,” I said. I may have lost a little hauteur.

One eyebrow rose. “Easy, girl,” he soothed. “I didn’t mean to disparage the love of your life.”

“I’ll disparage your—”

He laughed. “How long did he stay?”

Anger is all well and good, but when terror starts pouring in like acid rain, anger tends to run for cover. I glanced toward my front door.

“He’s not one of those fellows who kiss and run, is he?”

I zapped my gaze back to his. “He stayed plenty long.”

His lips twitched, but I was far past reading the meaning. “Kind of out of practice, weren’t you?”

I snarled at him.

“No wonder you looked like hell this morning. Maybe you better give me Ross’s last name. I’ll tell him to go easy on you next time.”

“I’m sorry you’re jealous, Rivera,” I said. “But you’re just going to have to accept the fact that I’m spoken for.”

“Spoken for?” He rose to his feet. The movement was slow, like a sleek, hard-muscled predator sizing up an unsuspecting bunny. I don’t like being the bunny. Even if they are cute.

He came around the table just as slowly, his gaze never leaving mine. I followed him with my eyes, frozen in place. Poor, poor bunny.

“You know what I think, McMullen?” He was standing directly in front of me, his eyes deadly. “I think you’re lying. I don’t think there is a Ross.”

I filled my lungs with air. “Oh, there’s a Ross,” I said.

“Yeah?” He stepped a little closer.

“He’s taller than you.”

He quirked up his lips. “I heard it’s girth that counts.”

“Makes twice your salary. He’ll probably pull in more than Solberg in another couple of years, and he’s not even a nerd.”

He laughed. I fumed.

“Well,” he said, tossing my wallet onto the table and turning toward the door. “I’ve heard gigolos can make a hell of an income these days.”

14

I’d rather be pissed off than pissed on.

—Chrissy’s version
of Father Pat’s truth maxim