Not One Clue (23 page)

“Semiautomatic? Cannon? Crossbow?”

“I would have noticed arrows.”

He wasn’t finding me particularly amusing … again.

“I think it was a handgun,” I said.

I could see a dozen questions boiling up in his eyes, but he skipped over them for a moment as he pulled out his cell phone. Flipping it open, he punched in a number. “What’d you do to your hair?” he asked.

“Nothing special.” Actually, I had crushed it under a wig for a few harrowing hours, then loosed it on the world. Apparently, it was now fighting back, because it sprang away from my head as if it were freshly permed.

Someone answered on the other end of the line, but Rivera didn’t shift his Dark Man attention from me.

“This is Lieutenant Rivera. I have an armed Yemeni man heading north on Opus in Sunland. He’s driving a dark, newer-model sedan.

“Name?” he asked.

I shook my head, but Aalia appeared in the doorway. “Ahmad,” she said. “Ahmad Orsorio.”

Rivera shifted his gaze from me to her. “Can you describe him?”

“He is cruel.”

Rivera nodded, not mocking.

“How tall is he?” Rivera asked. Apparently, he wasn’t one to deal in moods or signs or phases of the moon.

“Perhaps six foots tall by American means,” she said.

He ran through a list of questions and she answered dutifully. After a few minutes of relaying that information, he clicked his phone shut. Aalia quietly slipped into the kitchen once again. To me, that portion of the house is simply somewhere to eat junk food while I read trashy novels, and right now there wasn’t enough in it to feed a runway model, so she must have other reasons to be there. I wondered vaguely if she had been crying.

Rivera eyed me as he shoved his phone in the front pocket of his blue jeans. I tried not to watch.

“Where were you?” he asked, skimming my copper mermaid form with his hot gaze.

Shit. I hadn’t exactly thought of lies to cover this part of the conversation yet, but at least I had lost the wig. “I went to a, ummm … party.”

“Dressed like that?”

“It was a theme party.”

“And you were the little mermaid?” he asked. “All grown up?”

Hilarious. “Yes,” I said.

He gave me his patented almost-smile. “You go with Elaine?” he asked, and I stiffened a little, not wanting to divulge too much … like the fact that barely a full hour before I had been flirting like a streetwalker with his father.
Kill me now
, I thought, and tried to look confused. Some jobs are harder than others.

“No.”

“So you went alone?”

I shrugged, evasive as hell. “She was busy with wedding plans or something.” I managed to refrain from that nervous throat-clearing thing I sometimes do.

“So the house was empty when you got home.”

“Except for Harlequin,” I said.

He nodded and rubbed the dog’s ears. Harley closed his eyes and looked as if he might swoon with happiness. Which made me think that if worse came to worse in my so-called love life, which, by the by, it had, I’d settle for an ear rub.

“The house was locked?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Security system on?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, satisfied. Maybe I’d get an “Atta girl” if I didn’t warrant an ear rub, I thought, but he moved on.

“So you let Harley out. What happened after you’d retrieved your Mace?”

“I went out there just to take a look around. I mean, for all I knew it was just Bryn but …” I shrugged. “It looked like the guy was wearing a turban. So I thought of Aalia. By the time I got to the corner of the garage they were already near the car so I, umm …” Here’s where it got sticky. “I asked him to let her go.”

“Are you serious?”

I bristled immediately. “Of course I’m serious.”

“He had a handgun and you have a can of puke juice and you asked him to let her go?”

“I’m a trained psychologist, Rivera. It’s not as if I just fell out of the cabbage patch or something. I have some working knowledge of how people’s minds—”

“Jesus,” he said, and scrubbed his face with one hand. “Why can’t I just have a girlfriend who doesn’t feel it’s necessary to play Wonder Woman every day of her frickin’ life?”

“—work. In fact …” I blinked. “What did you say?” I asked, but just then my front door burst open.

We jerked toward it in unison, I with my Mace, Rivera with his big-ass phallic symbol.

Ramla gasped and halted in the doorway, eyes wide, mouth open.

There was a blink of silence, then, “My sister,” she rasped, attention darting from Rivera to me. “She is gone. I but went to the—”

It was then that Aalia appeared again.

The two women stared at each other for one abbreviated instant, then rushed into each other’s arms. A stream of dialogue I couldn’t decipher followed. There wasn’t much point in interrupting.

“Thank you,” Ramla said finally. She was clasping Aalia’s hand. “Christina.” She nodded solemnly at me, then at Rivera. “Lieutenant, you have my gratitude everlasting.”

He was back to his full-body scowl. “I’ll have more questions for her later,” he warned.

“She will not leave the house. I will make certain of it,” Ramla said, and ushered her sister toward the door.

Rivera accompanied them to the Al-Sadrs’ house. In his absence, I tried to think. It didn’t go particularly well. I needed a couple months to reflect on things. It was less than a minute before he returned.

“You shouldn’t have gone outside,” he said, approaching rapidly and resuming the conversation where we’d left it.

“Does that mean I’m not your girlfriend?”

He closed his eyes and rolled his head as if his neck hurt. “It means you’re a loose cannon, McMullen. Shit! A two-year-old would have known enough to stay inside.”

“So I’m not a two-year-old.”

“No.” His eyes seared me like I was a fine filet. “You’re a full-grown woman who constantly insists on getting shot.”

“That’s just it!” I said, adrenaline rushing through me, jumbling my thoughts. I hadn’t been anybody’s girlfriend for a long time. “I
didn’t
get shot. I thought I had but—”

My own stupidity stopped my words in their proverbial tracks.

The room had gone deadly silent.

“But what?” he asked. He was standing close enough to scatter my brain waves.

“I …” I shrugged. “I was wrong.”

“He shot at you?” Anger danced a tight jig in his lean-muscled cheek.

“Is it too late to get back to the part about my being your girlfriend?”

“The bastard
shot
at you?” He gritted his teeth as he shifted positions and glared at the back door.

“No. No,” I said, shaking my head tentatively. “I just thought … Maybe it was someone’s car backfiring or something.”

“Maybe you should move to a different neighborhood.”

“Not just this minute,” I said, and taking the one step that separated us, distracted him with a kiss.

24

Guys don’t make passes at girls with big asses.

—
Peter McMullen, shortly
before Chrissy knocked him
unconscious

R
ivera pulled away from the kiss, dark eyes smoking.

“Jesus, McMullen, you sure you went to that party alone?” Perhaps he had somehow sensed my sexual frustration.

“As a matter of fact,” I said, “I tried calling you. Left you a voice mail.” I didn’t mention the fact that I was just calling to make sure he was busy and
couldn’t
attend the premiere. “You didn’t bother returning my call.”

Maybe there was a smidgen of guilt in his expression. I pressed my advantage. “I admit I didn’t really feel like going alone, but you’d be surprised what I’ve learned to do solo.”

I didn’t really plan for the statement to sound suggestive, but the words were out there, along with the vibes. I watched his eyes go sultry. His nostrils flared.

“Lucky for me you made it home without some jackass sniffing at your tail.”

“Fortunate,” I said, and raised my chin a little as estrogen sluiced through me. Hold on to the gunwale, girls, it’s high tide.

“Holy Jesus,” he said, and glancing down at the gown’s iridescent fabric, cupped my left breast. It made me reconsider selling it. “Is this dress painted on?”

“Yeah.” I hoped to sound sassy, but would have been grateful for coherent. “It washes right off.”

He drew a deep breath and skimmed his hand over my ribs to my waist. “You must have had your Mace handy at the party, too.”

“I kept it around my neck,” I said. “Right between my boobs.”

He dropped his gaze from my eyes to my body and stopped. “I take it your cell phone was occupied elsewhere at the time?”

I glanced down. I’d totally forgotten I’d shoved it in there. Reaching up, I snagged it from its cozy spot. My breasts sprang back into place like warm bread dough.

By the time I glanced up, his eyes were shooting sparks like fireworks. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “When did we first meet, McMullen?” he asked, and moving a little closer, slipped his palm around my waist and over the slinky fabric barely covering my ass.

I shrugged, trying to look casual, but shit, I could hardly breathe. He expected me to employ my memory?

“August twenty-fourth, 2005,” he said.

“Yeah?” I was a little giddy at the fact that he knew the exact date. Or maybe there were other reasons.

“Yeah,” he said, and shifted a hard-muscled thigh between my own. “And you still haven’t fucked me.” His quads contracted against me, but swooning was no longer an option. Taking him down like a oversexed grizzly, however …

“The timing’s been iffy,” I said. “Too many phone calls.”

“You know what they say about timing,” he said, and kissed the corner of my mouth.

“I don’t believe I do.” The tone of my voice suggested I didn’t know much.

“There’s no time like the present.”

“That
is
a time-honored sentiment.”

“And you’re wearing that do-me dress.”

Maybe I should have argued with that, but it hardly seemed worth the effort. Besides, when he slid his hand up my derriere I couldn’t have argued with anything. His fingers trailed from the slippery fabric onto my bare skin.

Some say near-death experiences heighten the senses. It might be true, because my senses were honed in on him like a bird dog on a chicken wing. I felt his fingers tickle against my back even as the knuckles of his left hand whispered featherlike over my chest, across the swell of my boobs, and onto my neck. His breath smelled of ecstasy in waiting as he kissed the corner of my mouth.

“Do-me earrings,” he said as he slipped his fingers beneath my glittery hoops and cupped my neck with his palm.

His lips against my collarbone made my knees go weak. I’ll never know exactly how we ended up on the couch, but we did. I was leaning up against the armrest like a drunken sailor and he was sitting beneath my knees.

He ran his hands up the arch of my left foot to my ankle.

I’m afraid I didn’t quite manage to stifle my moan. He grinned, then propped the pad of my foot against his hip and moved his hands upward, slipping the gown away as he went.

“Do-me legs,” he said.

I had never been happier in my life that I had actually shaved. The gown was just past my knees now. I sighed as he massaged my calf. My muscles went lax. My foot slipped forward. It pressed up against his erection.

Our gazes met, fire on lighter fluid. And then he was leaning across the couch, between my legs, eyes dark and intense and—

He stopped, gaze shifting just the slightest degree, body freezing instantly. I felt the drop in temperature immediately.

My mind was scrambling. I turned toward the rear of the house, and then I realized what he was looking at; Vincent had dropped his tie near the back door.

“Who did you say your escort was?” he asked.

I have nothing against lying. In fact, it’s generally my first instinct, but it had been a coon’s age since I’d seen a guy naked. I wanted to something awful, but history suggested that Rivera wasn’t the kind who really appreciated creative fabrications.

I held my breath for an instant, fighting honesty, then, “I can’t tell you.”

He was frozen above me, one arm braced against the back of the couch, one on the armrest. His biceps stood out in taut relief beneath his dark, touchable skin, and his eyes were screaming lewd suggestions that I dearly wanted to take him up on. “Can’t or won’t?” His voice was low, gruff, warning me to give the right answer. But Vincent had helped me out long ago when I had needed a friend, and I had no intention of betraying his trust.

“He did me a favor.”

His eyes were dark and deadly, but somehow my hormones didn’t give a shit that I couldn’t tell if he planned to kiss me or kill me.

“Lots of guys would, McMullen,” he said. “If given a chance.”

I felt anger course through me, but I held it in check. “How sweet of you to say.”

He stared at me. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

I swallowed. “It doesn’t matter who I was with,” I said, and found that with his hard-muscled body pressed against me, I had very little pride. A butt-load of libido, but very little pride. “I didn’t do anything with him.”

“Except nearly get yourself killed.”

“That’s not his fault.”

“Then why not tell me who he is?”

I scowled. “He’s semifamous and doesn’t want anyone to know—” I stopped, realizing the flaw in my reasoning. If he didn’t want anyone to know we were together he certainly wouldn’t have attended a public event with me, but Rivera had already jumped past that point.

“Know what?” he asked. “That he had a gun?”