Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures) (23 page)

“What happened?” he asked, his warm breath fanning my forehead.

Suddenly I saw Elizabeth in my mind... the bright scarf, the impeccable Chanel suit... my chest tightened and my throat closed, choking me so I couldn’t speak. I shook my head.

“Talk to me, Maggie. Are you hurt?”

Yes, I was hurt. Deeply hurt. The knife slashed through my insides until I was one bloody mess of guilt and regret and sorrow.

“Maggie, say something... anything,” he said, tilting my chin up with one hand. “If you don’t start talking, I’m taking you to a doctor right now, even if I have to drag you there. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I lifted my eyes and gazed at his face, a warm, rugged face that stared back at me with worry etched in his eyes. My heart slowed down a beat and my throat eased. This man touched me someplace deep inside, a place I didn’t even know existed.

“Elizabeth was dying of cancer, Villari. She had less than six months to live... if she hadn’t been murdered first. I didn’t even know she was sick. How could that be?”

He brushed my hair off my face. “How did you find out?”

I looked up at him. “You knew?” I asked incredulously. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“It’s part of the investigation, Maggie. We’ve tried to recreate Elizabeth’s last few days as closely as possible in order to find a clue, some piece of evidence that could lead us to the killer.” His face grew more serious. “I didn’t see how that information would help you.”

I put my hands flat on his chest and pushed him back. “She was my neighbor, my dearest friend, and you didn’t think I should know that she was dying?” I demanded, my temper flaring. Without waiting for an answer, I stomped off toward the porch.

“Why would you want to know, Maggie?” he called to my retreating back. “So you could beat yourself up with guilt?”

I stopped and spun around. “I could have been there for her. I should have been.”

Villari took three long steps toward me, grabbed my arms, and hauled me against his chest.

“You
were
with her, you idiot, exactly the way she wanted you to be.” He held me still, held me together as though I’d explode into a million fireworks, holding me so tight I wasn’t sure I could breathe. “Elizabeth didn’t want you to know, can’t you see that? From what you’ve told me, she was one proud lady. That’s the way she lived her life and that’s the way she wanted to die.”

He was right, of course. Elizabeth would have hated being waited on, or worse, being pitied and treated like an invalid. Once her prognosis was definite, she would have wanted to live the last few months of her life in full gear and, as she grew weaker, to die in a quiet retreat by herself. I relaxed in his arms and laid my head against his shoulder, breathing in the smell of sheer masculinity, of fresh scentless soap, of clean sweat that only a man can wear. If I’d been brought up with horses, I would have said he smelled of the outdoors, of leather, of hay, of long hard days and cool sweet nights. No matter what words I used, his fragrance defined pure male.

Villari’s heart pulsed in strong, rhythmic beats, so calm and steady I couldn’t resist snuggling closer, the sound soothing me like a lullaby. I burrowed in and let myself enjoy the safe haven of his arms, knowing the respite he offered was brief. Sooner or later he would break the spell with his insistent questions and the peace he offered me right now would come to an end.

“Maggie, I know it doesn’t help,” he said, his tone soft and gentle, “but I didn’t know until just recently.”

Tears flowed in thin rivulets down my cheeks. “It’s okay,” I said, my words smothered against his shirt. “You were right. Elizabeth wanted it that way, and Elizabeth always managed to get her way.” I tilted my head back and smiled at him. “Thanks for putting up with me. I have a tendency to cover my emotions with anger.”

His mouth twitched. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

With one hand splayed against his chest, I shoved him back again. “Why do people always feel the need to gloat when someone apologizes,” I said, grinning and swiping at my tears.

Villari frowned. “That was an apology? All I heard was a thanks for putting up with your very limited repertoire of responses.”  Jamming his fingers through his hair, he gazed up into the clouds as he added, “Let me see if I can list them. Would they be—in alphabetical order, no less—anger, anger, and maybe more anger?”

“Everyone’s a comedian,” I groaned.

He chuckled. “Yeah, it’s one of my better qualities,” he said, coming forward and putting my hand in his. “Come on, Maggie. Let’s go inside. I’m starving and I know nothing would tickle your fancy more than feeding a hungry man.”

Amusement gleamed in his eyes and I found myself laughing as he dragged me through the front door and stopped in the middle of the kitchen.

“I’ll just make myself comfortable at the table.”

I propped my hands on my hips. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope.” He released my hand and patted me lightly on the butt before walking into the breakfast nook and dropping down into the nearest chair. I didn’t even want to think about the heat his hand left on my bottom.

“I don’t cook, Villari. Not unless you consider peanut butter and jelly a meal.”

“Throw some chips on the side and I’ll crown you the next Julia Child.”

Ten minutes later we were munching on dry sandwiches and washing them down with tall glasses of instant iced tea... another knack of mine. I had popped my last bite in my mouth when Villari started in on me. “So where were you off to today? Let me guess.  Sightseeing? Shopping for your summer wardrobe?”

“You’re a funny guy, Villari,” I said, as I chewed around another thick, sticky bite. I grabbed my glass and poured the tea down my throat.

“Yeah, I’m a laugh a minute.” He dropped the last of his sandwich on his plate and leaned forward, staring me down. “Let’s do ourselves a favor this time, okay? Answer the question directly instead of following the circuitous route you’re so familiar with. It will save a lot of time and effort so we can actually enjoy each other’s company for more than a few minutes this time.”

Normally, I would have bristled at his tone, but right now, I felt like a giant emotional sieve, everything draining out of me in one large shake. The morning had been exhausting, and I realized that I simply didn’t have the energy for a fight. But pride was a funny thing. Even though I was more than willing to answer his questions, I wasn’t going to  hand everything over on a silver platter. I’d always played my cards close to my chest, and this was no exception. Besides, why should I make it easy for the guy?

“What do you want to know?”

He ignored my less than enthusiastic response. “Just the simple things. I don’t have the manpower to put a tail on you, Maggie, otherwise I would have done so the day Elizabeth died, and definitely after the threatening phone call, but—”

“Don’t worry about the call.”

As I expected, his eyes narrowed and his lips thinned into two hard lines. “What do you know about the phone call?”

I couldn’t help but puff my chest out a little, not that there was much to puff. “I did a little old-fashioned detective work and learned the name of the caller.”

“Stop jerking me around, Maggie, and tell me what you know before I reach across the table and do something we’ll both regret.”

“You do know how to romance a girl, Villari.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” he replied sharply. “And now, there goes our few minutes of getting along.”

I held my hands up over my head in surrender and told him the story. I started with Hawthorne’s phone call, Cassie’s visit, and my trip to see Lindsay Burns.  I spent the bulk of my time trying to retell my conversation with Lindsay as accurately as possible.  Then I quickly wrapped up the whole story describing my brief encounter with Cassie’s weasel of a brother.

“By the time I got home, Villari, I was actually glad to see you.”

“Glad I could be of service,” he murmured distractedly. He was staring off into space, oblivious to my last statement. I guess I expected some type of “attaboy” sign of approval like a hearty slap on the back for a good day’s work.  But the man never responded the way I expected.  I could see the wheels churning in his head and I had the sneaking suspicion that he wouldn’t be nearly as forthcoming with information as I had been.

“What did you find out about her husband?”

It was like I’d never spoken.  “Why do you think Preston told you about the cancer, Maggie?” he asked pensively.

“To hurt me.”

“Probably. But even that doesn’t really make any sense. Not since Elizabeth is already dead. Unless,” he mused, “he wasn’t just telling you, but warning you.”

“Warning me of what?”

“I don’t know for sure, but given his mercenary character, I’d guess it’s a ploy to get Elizabeth’s money.” Villari spoke in low tones, as though he were talking and working it out for himself. “Preston and Cassie will probably try to contest the will under the grounds that Elizabeth was dying.  They’ll want to prove that the stress of her disease put her in a very vulnerable, shaky state of mind and that you took advantage of her vulnerability to get yourself put in the will.”

“Elizabeth was about as vulnerable as a pit bull. Besides, Hawthorne would never go for it.”

“They may not use Hawthorne. Just because Elizabeth was loyal to him doesn’t mean those two will follow suit.”

“God, this just never ends.”

Villari reached over and squeezed my hand encouragingly. “Don’t get discouraged, Maggie. It’s only a guess on my part, and if that’s their plan, Hawthorne will take care of the legalities for you. Besides, a lawsuit would only serve to tie the will up in court for a long time, and cost them money they don’t have, which means they’re stuck right where they are... for a while, at least. If we’re lucky, we may be around long enough to see Cassie get off her cute little butt and get a real job.”

“You noticed her butt?”

A slow grin spread across his face. “Hey, the girl may be a spoiled little princess, but she takes care of herself.”

“I’m thrilled to hear that.”

“Envious?”

“Not on your life.”

Villari tugged on my arm. A second later he had me in his lap, one hand on my hip, the other curved around my neck. “You know, Maggie, if you wore a pair of pants that were even remotely your size, instead of something big enough to line my garbage can, I might be able to tell whether your butt is cute or not.”

“Did I say I cared?” I asked pointedly.

He laughed, then drew my head down until my face was inches from his. “Honey, you’ll care soon enough when we end up tussling in bed,” he whispered before covering my protest with his mouth. “Naked,” he added.

This time there was no skimming or nibbling or nuzzling. This kiss was a straight shot of heat. His lips were hot and demanding. I held myself stiffly and tried to hold myself back. I did not want to repeat last night’s embarrassment. The last thing I needed was to get all hot and bothered again, only to have him pull back and play Mr. Chastity. But if he could feel my resistance, he didn’t say anything. He just kept on kissing me, relentlessly and tenaciously, until my body jumped ship and melted. Leaning into him, I felt a suspicious bulge under my thigh and I thought—quite smugly—that my baggy shorts must have something going for them after all.

We broke apart at the same time and smiled at each other.

“Well.”

“Yes, well.”

“What happened to the ‘integrity of the investigation’?” I teased.

“Who came up with that line of bull?”

I hit him in the chest. “You did and you know it.  Last night, as a matter of fact.”

He held both my wrists together with one hand, slipped his free one underneath my T-shirt, and traced the top of my shorts. “Did I ever tell you my idea of a fantasy woman?”

“No,” I replied, enjoying the tantalizing feeling of his fingers brushing my skin as he continued his slow exploration around my waistband.

“Truth is, I’ve always been partial to tall, statuesque blondes.  You know, five-foot-ten, one hundred and thirty pounds, with large breasts and honey-blonde hair that looks like spun gold.”

“Then what are you doing toying with
my
pants?”

“Hell if I know. All these years I’ve been on the prowl for a long-legged, buxom blonde, and here I am groping a skinny girl with a mop of curly hair and a mind of her own. Go figure.”

“Before I break one of your ribs, you’d better tell me whether that was a compliment or an insult.”

“Neither. Just a statement of fact. The fact is, you’re adorable and I’m completely smitten with you.  I’ve never met a woman who exasperated me the way you do.  Nor have I met a woman that made me want to toss her on the bed and make love until morning comes and then start all over again.  All at the same time.” Villari took one look at my face and chuckled. “I’ll be damned. I never thought I’d see the day when Maggie Kean was speechless.” Then he kissed me again, so completely and thoroughly that I thought seriously about taking out an insurance policy on those lips of his. They were priceless.

“Well, Maggie, it’s your call. We can do the right thing and wait until the investigation is over, or”—he slid his hand up toward my bra—“we can move to your bedroom and play doctor.”

It was a tough choice between brussel sprouts and a bowl of ice cream. “I make a heck of a nurse,” I purred, going for a kittenish sound that came out like something was jammed in my throat. But it seemed to work.

Before I knew it, Villari had scooped me up and was carrying me down the hallway toward the bedroom. I was swooning with the sheer romance of it all, ignoring the fact that he had to adjust the load in his arms a couple of times. Unlike the romance books that describe half-naked men carting their women off to bed without a hitch, lifting a hundred and some odd pounds in real life is more than a sack of potatoes. Except for bouncing my head against the doorjamb a couple of times, though, he managed to get me to the bedroom in one piece. I was pretty impressed.

“That was awfully manly of you, Detective,” I said as he dropped me on the bed.