Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures) (11 page)

By the time I drove home and let myself into the house, it was still early, just a little past eight-thirty. I had stopped at Einstein’s on the way and picked up a garlic bagel slathered with garlic and dill cream cheese and a small bottle of water.  I managed to get a few bites down before throwing the rest in the trashcan underneath the sink. I took my water into the studio. I was still shaking an hour later as this morning’s scene replayed itself over and over in my mind.  Lindsay Burns had gotten to me. Hiding behind a half-opened door when a stranger comes calling isn’t surprising these days. In fact, it makes sense. But she wasn’t hiding from me because I was a stranger. She was hiding because she was afraid.

That wasn’t all.  The fact is, Lindsay Burns was not Elizabeth’s usual cup of tea. Of course, neither was I, but there was a difference. It’s true that my clothes didn’t come from exclusive boutiques, and God knows, I’m not listed in the Social Register, but I did have a life inside and outside my home. I had the distinct feeling that the girl I met today was a recluse. The pallor she wore was the result of holing up somewhere in the dark.

There in my studio, I removed the plastic sheet from my latest block of “nothing yet” clay.  Circling the table, I examined it from all angles, lightly skimming my hands down the sides and across the top.  My mind emptied itself, leaving my brain open for what some people erroneously call inspiration. But it just doesn’t feel like that to me. It’s nothing I do, or think, or imagine, that begins the process. It’s something this brown mass of earth does all by itself. Somehow, in all the touching and probing, the clay sends a message. Without realizing or even understanding what’s happening, my hands begin to shape and mold. Sometimes I simply rest my fingertips against the cool surface and they start to move on their own, pulling me along behind. It’s a crazy, heady feeling sitting on a catamaran and riding the waves while the captain mans the sails.

It doesn’t always happen that way, though. More often than not, I have to take the long way around and sort of prod the subconscious message along. On a slow day, I will often leave the clay, drag my stool up next to the window or directly beneath the skylight, and start sketching, usually human figures. Drawing isn’t my strongest skill; I’d go broke inside a month if I had to rely on my pictures for income, but it’s a good foundation for sculpting.

“Are you any good?”

I jumped a good six inches off the stool and went crashing to the floor. I looked up to see Villari’s face pressed up against the screen, chuckling at the picture I made sprawled out the wooden floor.

“What the hell?” I sputtered.

“Are you okay?” he asked.  “I didn’t mean to scare you... well, maybe I was going for a slight startle, but I didn’t expect such an explosive reaction.”

I scraped myself off the ground, flustered and embarrassed by my own klutziness.

“Was the front door hard to find?” I asked, brushing off my clothes and pushing back my hair. “Exactly how did you expect me to react when you come sneaking through the bushes and—hey, you’re not stepping on my impatiens, are you?”

Villari glanced down at his feet. “Nope. I’m standing very carefully between the juniper bushes, which, by the way, need some major trimming, the wheelbarrow, and your little row of flowers. So you can stop worrying.”

“Why would I worry? Now that you’re stalking me in my own house, I feel perfectly comfortable.”

“Technically, I’m not inside your house.  And I’m not stalking. I knocked on the door and no one answered. I figured you were either in the bedroom or working in the studio.”

I frowned. “Were you planning on peeking in my bedroom window if you didn’t find me here?”

“I would have knocked on the window before peeking. It’s not my policy to barge in uninvited.”

“I’m so happy to hear you have such scruples,” I said dryly. “I would have guessed you were the type to barge in exactly where you
weren’t
invited.”

Villari grinned. “See how wrong first impressions can be?”

“Enough of the chitchat, Detective. Tell me what you want, then get the hell out of here.”

“Fair enough. But I’m tired of talking to you through a screen.  Would you mind opening the front door?”

“I’ll let you in, but I’m not offering you coffee or making you breakfast, so don’t get any ideas. There’s a neighborhood doughnut shop a couple of miles away where you can meet some of your cronies and feel right at home.”

“You’re downright prickly this morning.”

“I was prickly before you arrived. Now I’m downright irritated,” I said, my rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the wooden floor as I turned and stomped out of the room.

Villari was slouched against the doorjamb when I opened the door. At first glance, his face appeared devoid of expression, but upon closer inspection, it was impossible to miss the twinkle of amusement that flashed in his eyes. He stepped forward, forcing me backward as he closed the door behind him.

“So who pissed in your cereal this morning?”

“Lovely expression,” I murmured, turning my back on him and walking into the kitchen.

“Not really, but it seems apropos. Something’s happened to make you more hostile than usual.”

“If something did, it’s my business,” I replied, pulling a mug. I poured myself more coffee, which at this time of the morning tasted burned and bitter, but mercifully hot. I laced my fingers around the cup before turning towards the detective, watching the steam float into the air as I blew across the top.

“Normally, it would be, but these aren’t normal times,” Villari said, eyeing my coffee with something akin to lust. “Want to tell me where you went this morning?”

I went completely still. How did he know I’d been anywhere? 

“You’re spying on me?” I stammered. I carelessly plopped the mug on the counter, ignoring the coffee that splashed over the rim. “Since you obviously followed me, then you know exactly where I was. The real problem is that you don’t know why I was there, do you?”

Villari’s eyes glittered dangerously. “For your information, we’ve got a cop circling the block every half hour. We want to avoid a repeat of Elizabeth Boyer. It’s not much protection, but it’s the best I could get. When the patrol shift changed, I happened to be at my desk finishing up some paperwork. Joe walked in and mentioned to the cop taking over the job that your car was missing from the driveway when he drove by around seven.

“So my car was missing. That’s a crime now?”

“No, that’s not a crime, Maggie,” Villari said in a menacingly soft whisper as he walked toward me, “but I’ve been a cop long enough to know when someone is hiding something. Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

I wondered how much he knew and whether I could trust him. It’s not that I had anything concrete to show for my little trip down to Woodlake Meadows, but the moment I took that book from Elizabeth’s desk, I crossed a line. I knew that I was going to have to find answers if I ever wanted to put Elizabeth to rest peacefully. And I couldn’t let this guy get in my way.

Standing in the middle of my kitchen, both hands propped on his lean hips, he saw me hesitate. “Spill it, Maggie. Whatever it is you know or think you know.”

His voice snapped me from my thoughts. I turned, picked up the sponge from the sink, and mopped the counter, feeling his eyes on my back as he patiently waited for my answer. I swung around and faced him. “Look, you’re very good at this intimidation routine, and if I had anything to confess, I would have done so a long time ago. But I haven’t done anything wrong except go about my daily life and I don’t feel obligated to tell you about every little move I make.” I skirted past him and started toward the breakfast room. Of course, he followed me. Close behind.

“I don’t suppose you did very well in Tailing Suspects 101,” I said.  “Didn’t they tell you to put a little distance between you and the person you’re following?”

Villari reached out and took hold of my arm to stop me. Gathering my courage for a full-blown argument, I turned and looked up to see him quietly studying my face, his coal-black eyes gentle and calm.

“I sincerely doubt you did much better in Trust 101.”

And with that unexpected bombshell of sensitivity, my heart went pitter-patter and my stomach flip-flopped and my knees wobbled. I wasn’t ready for understanding or simple sweetness, not with Elizabeth just barely in her grave and not with the pain so new. And I especially did not want anything from someone who looked like he stepped out of
People’s
“Sexiest Man Alive” issue while I could easily be a model for shabby chic...without the “chic”.

The man was standing too damned close for comfort. His breath, warm and sweet, fanned my face, and to my complete disgust, a funny feeling kept fluttering around inside. I put both hands on his chest and pushed.

He didn’t budge.

With one hand, he covered mine and held them to his chest. With his free hand, he cupped my chin and tilted it upward. “I have the feeling I may regret this, Maggie, but apparently I left my senses out there on the doorstep.”

“Stop manhandling me, you overgrown dim-witted sack of muscles.” It sounded lame...even to my own ears.

“Hold still, Maggie,” he said, trailing his thumb down the side of my cheek as he held my chin in his palm. “Trust me, we’ll get to manhandling later. But right now we’re just testing a theory.”

Then he kissed me.

Chapter Seven

Don’t get me wrong.  I’ve been kissed before.  Just not that way.  Not with that soft, sweet nibbling at my bottom lip, nuzzling against my mouth until my knees buckled.  And not with a tongue lazily skimming along the top of my teeth.  Villari’s lips took possession and all I could do was grab onto his shirt and hang on.  He smelled faintly of coffee and minty toothpaste, and before I could stop myself, I was kissing him back.  I flushed, trembled like an aspen leaf, and was getting genuinely hot and bothered when Villari suddenly lifted his head and gazed at me with those dark liquid eyes.

“You’re a lovely woman, Maggie, although God knows you do your best to hide that fact.”

Heat suffused my face. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

Villari grinned. “Nope. Just you. I have a real thing for women swimming in extra-large shirts.”

“Happy to oblige.”

Chuckling, he released my chin and kissed the corner of my mouth, behind my ears, trailing his lips down to the hollow of my throat, where I could feel his moist breath on my neck. Still holding my hands close to his chest, he slid his other arm around my waist and pulled me even closer.

“I think we better slow down here a little, Villari,” I managed to say, after coming up for air a second time.

“You’re probably right,” he said, his voice muffled against my skin. “I’ll probably get my butt kicked for this.”

“Maybe we should pick this up a little later.” “Hmmmm.”

I wanted to pull back, but the whispery kisses fanning the base of my throat weakened my resolve. The man was excruciatingly thorough, taking his time with each kiss, the heat of his fingertips burning my skin until I had no strength to fight him off. I hung there like a limp doll, too helpless against the sensations that radiated from every part of my body to be bothered with questions of whether or not this was the right thing to do.

But then life intervened.

The phone rang.

Villari lifted his head and stared at me in a daze. I wasn’t doing much better. I blinked my eyes several times to force my brain out of its sex-induced fog.

“I’d better get that,” I said, squirming out of his embrace.

“This doesn’t end here, Maggie. You know that.” He dropped my hands and took a step back.

I snaked by without answering him and grabbed the cordless phone.

“Hello?”

“Maggie, it’s me. I’ve got an hour before Joel has to leave for work. Want to get some breakfast? I’m starving.”

“Um, thanks, Lisa, but I’ve eaten already.”

“Which means you drank two or three cups of coffee, right? If you’re not hungry, come sit and keep me company. We can talk about that gorgeous hunk of detective that keeps sniffing around.”

I glanced over at Villari, who had poured himself some coffee and was now sitting on a bar stool pulling the sports section from this morning’s newspaper. The scene was entirely too domestic for my taste.  He raised his head, grinned at what I thought was my very best scowl, toasted me with his cup and mouthed, “Lousy coffee.”

“Yeah, well, he’s sniffing around in my kitchen as we speak.”

“Detective Villari is right there?”

“Yep. He’s made himself right at home and it’s starting to irritate me.”

“I love it. Have him stick around until you’re really angry. Nothing’s better than sex after a nasty fight.”

I sighed. “Try to expand your horizons past the Boy-Meets-Girl scenario. This is the new millennium, Lisa. Women don’t wear petticoats and men don’t wear loincloths. I’m not the fair maiden here and—” I stopped abruptly when I realized that Villari had put down the newspaper and was staring at me with one eyebrow lifted and a very amused look on his face.