Protector for Hire (13 page)

Deaf mute? See, that would have been a good cover story after all. Dammit.

Laverne reached across the table and patted his hand, which was still twined with Dollface Lambchop Cupcake Sweet Pea Spunky Ma’am Rebecca Janelle’s.

“It really is lovely to make your acquaintance,” she said. “Bill, sweetie? How about a little something for a special toast?”

“Toast? Sure, we’ve got white, wheat, rye—”

“No, no—a toast. For our friends here. They’ve gotten engaged, and I think we all ought to celebrate, don’t you?”

She was looking at him now, and Schwartz sensed the correct answer was not “Hell no.”

“That’s not really necessary—” he started, but Bill was already turning away from the table.

“I’ll be right back,” he called. “I’ll get you some of the good stuff.”

“Oh,” his multi-named bride demurred beside him. “Actually, I don’t really drink champagne.”

“Neither do we, pookie-pie,” Laverne said. “Bill makes the best moonshine you’ve ever tasted. It’ll be perfect.”

“Perfectly perfect!” SaraJo agreed, flashing them a grin.

“Moonshine,” she repeated, turning to Schwartz with a smile that made him forget his irritation and annoyance and probably his own name. “Moonshine does sound perfect.”

“Perfect,” Schwartz muttered, and reached for the shot glass Bill handed him.

Chapter Eight

By the time they’d finished grocery shopping and stashed the bags in the truck, Schwartz had almost stopped muttering to himself. Janelle might have felt bad about the way things had unfolded at the restaurant if she hadn’t heard him laugh when Laverne gave him a parting hug that ended with a two-handed butt grab.

“So I take it this isn’t how things go on your regular trips to town?” she asked as she shoved two large grocery bags into the surprisingly tidy cargo box.

“Can’t say I’ve ever driven home at the end of an errand run with a fake incestuous fiancée, a bottle of moonshine, and a recipe for banana bread.”

“Sounds like the makings of a really good time. Either that, or a Quentin Tarantino movie.”

“We can make the banana bread tonight if you want.”

She grinned and tried to picture herself shoulder to shoulder with Schwartz in his tiny kitchen, their hands dusted with flour as they took turns licking the beaters. The licking took a sordid turn in her mind and she almost missed the fact that he’d locked the truck door and was striding back toward the line of tiny buildings on the west side of the street.

She hurried after him, adjusting her wig as the wind threatened to lift it off her scalp. “Where are we going?”

“Quick stop at the post office.”

“You’re expecting mail?”

He didn’t answer her. Just opened the door to a dusty little brown building and walked inside. She started to follow, but decided she’d attract less attention out here. Besides, it was a beautiful day. She plunked down on the wooden bench next to the door and rubbed her hands over her knees. The air was cool and crisp, with blue skies in every direction. A few wispy clouds were draped like scarves around the distant mountain peaks, while something that was either an eagle or a drone soared over the treetops. Janelle could smell pine needles and smoke and something she thought might be lake water.

A truck drove slowly down the center of the narrow street, slowing a little at the Walt Crossing sign. The woman behind the wheel waved at her, and Janelle waved back, pretty sure everyone here would offer the same cheerful greeting whether they saw a long-lost friend or a serial killer.

The post office door swung open and Janelle turned to see Schwartz carrying a large box.

“Here,” he said, thrusting it at her.

“What is it?”

“Engagement gift.”

She hugged the box to her chest, not sure what to make of it. The thing felt heavy, so she set it down on the bench beside her and studied the packaging. Plain brown box, with Schwartz’s name and an address label that had been carefully carved out. The guy didn’t miss a thing.

“Can I open it now?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Sure.”

She stuck a fingernail under the packing tape, but found it didn’t give as quickly as she expected. Her nails had broken off short, and she hadn’t had a chance to redo her manicure. Before she could look around for something sharp, Schwartz was handing her a large pocketknife.

“Thank you,” she said, cutting into the tape. “You know, I’m starting to think I wouldn’t recognize you if you weren’t wielding a maul or a gun or a knife. You’re pretty much always armed, aren’t you?”

“Runs in the family,” he said as she handed the knife back.

She pried open the flaps on the box and sucked in a breath. “An espresso maker? You got me an espresso maker?”

“How else was I going to get you to stop bitching about the coffee?”

She jumped up, pretty sure the tears springing to her eyes had nothing to do with coffee. Angling up on tiptoe, she threw her arms around his neck and hugged tight. She knew he wasn’t much of a hugger, and expected him to tense up like he had earlier, but he surprised her by hugging back. With her arms still around his neck, she looked up into his eyes. They were the same gray eyes she’d seen dozens of times on her sister’s fiancé, Grant, but they were different on him. More intense.

“I can’t believe this,” she said. “No one’s ever gotten me such a thoughtful gift.”

He gave her an odd look. “You were married to a guy who made millions slinging heroin. Didn’t he buy you a shit-pile of fancy jewelry and cars?”

“Sure, but this has a built-in grinder and four frothing functions.”

“Frothing functions are the way to a woman’s heart?”

“It’s the way to my heart, and that’s what matters. I love it, Schwartz! You’re amazing.”

It was his turn to look surprised, and she realized she should probably let go of him and stop grabbing him in public like this. “Thank you. It means a lot to me.”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping back. “Come on, we should get back. Want me to carry that?”

“I’ve got it,” she said, bear hugging the box to her chest as she stood to follow him.

…

Schwartz was quiet again on the drive home, which Janelle was learning not to take too personally. Back at the cabin, she hooked up her new espresso maker and practiced making lattes and cappuccinos with foamy designs in the top. Schwartz disappeared into the other room, closing the door behind him.

An hour later, he emerged with a phone in his hand. “Good news.”

“I know! I just figured out how to make a heart in the foam on a cappuccino.”

“That’s clearly a cause for celebration, but so is the fact that San Francisco police just brought Jacques’s right hand man in for questioning.”

“Bernie?”

“You know him?”

She shrugged, feeling cold even though she was gripping a warm mug in each hand. “I met him a couple times. Jacques told me they were tennis partners.”

He grimaced and shook his head. “No, though he was once arrested for beating a man to death with a golf club.”

“At least it was some sort of sports equipment. Jacques stuck close to the truth with his lies.”

“Good liars usually do.”

Janelle swallowed hard, not sure it was much of a comfort to know Jacques qualified as a skilled liar. She’d been married to the man, for crying out loud. They’d shared a bed and a last name and a Costco membership. Shouldn’t she have seen through his lies?

No, because you suck at this.

“You’re really good at this.”

She blinked at Schwartz, startled by his words. “At making cappuccinos?”

“That, too, but it’s not what I meant. You’re good at fitting in. Making yourself at home, whether you’re in a remote mountain cabin or a small-town café. Everyone loved you back there.”

“Thanks. I think. Sorry I didn’t lie low like you told me to.”

“You tried. It’s not your fault you have a magnetic personality.”

She smiled, appreciating the compliment even though she had a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She looked down at her mugs, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. “So what happens now? With Bernie, I mean.”

“The cops will question him. Depending on what they’ve got, it’s possible he’ll roll on Jacques.”

“And Jacques would go to prison?”

“In a perfect world, yes.”

“And then life could go back to the way it was for both of us.”

She didn’t mean to sound so glum about it, but that’s how it came out.

“Yep,” he said and nodded at the espresso maker. “Well, except you’ll have a new toy.”

“Toys don’t keep you warm at night.”

“Maybe you haven’t had the right kinds of toys.” He frowned. “That sounded dirtier than I meant it to.” He cleared his throat and took a few steps back. “I think I’ll head to bed with my laptop. Thanks again for making dinner.”

“My pleasure. Apple-braised pork chops are a small price to pay for an espresso maker. Thanks again, Schwartz.”

He hesitated, and she wanted to hug him again, but thought better of it. The hugs of gratitude seemed like the gateway drug to getting naked. He turned and walked away, and Janelle continued fiddling with her machine. She made another latte and one straight espresso shot just to practice.

Consuming them all might not have been the best idea. At midnight, she was still wide awake in her rollaway. Sherman was out in the living room snoring, and she hadn’t had the heart to wake him up so she wouldn’t have to sleep alone.

Where was Jacques now? Was he still looking for her, or had Bernie’s arrest pulled his focus elsewhere? Was it just a matter of time until the cops caught him? Then she’d be safe.

I feel safe now
, she thought, glancing at the wall as though she might be able to see Schwartz asleep on the other side of it
. At least I feel safe with him.

She sat up and adjusted her pillow, then flopped back against it with a satisfying
whump
.

On the other side of the wall, she heard bedsprings creak. Was he awake, too? She felt her nerves prickle. She glanced at the desk where the little black phone still rested. Did she dare?

She did.

Janelle reached for the phone and punched in his number. She heard the buzz on the other side of the wall and held her breath, waiting.

“Can’t sleep?” he murmured.

“No.”

“Think the six trillion milligrams of caffeine might have something to do with that?”

“Maybe. Sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t.”

“Why were you still awake?”

“Sleep doesn’t come too easy for me.”

“I would.”

“What?”

She swallowed and closed her eyes, realizing she’d just uttered what was either the single lamest or the single ballsiest phrase she’d ever used in her life. But there was no taking it back now, so she said it again.

“I would. Come easy for you, I mean. If you wanted to—”

“We can’t.”

“Okay.”

She waited for him to disconnect the call, but he didn’t. And she could still hear him breathing on the other end of the line. When he spoke again, his voice was low and suggestive.

“What are you wearing?”

…

What are you wearing?

Schwartz mentally kicked himself for using the cheesiest phone-sex cliché in the book. He half expected her to hang up on him or to tell him he was a raging pervert.

Instead, she answered. “Cami top and sleep shorts.”

He closed his eyes, picturing her in his mind. Christ, he shouldn’t be doing this. He’d pledged to keep his distance, to keep himself from getting distracted by sex or connection or the heat in her eyes.

You’re not even in the same room,
his subconscious pointed out.
You can’t even see her. Surely you can still keep your head clear if you keep your hands off her.

He cleared his throat. “Panties?”

“No. Satin sleep shorts.”

“Are you lying back on the bed?”

“Yes.”

Schwartz stifled a groan. God, he could imagine her lying there with her hair spread across the pillow, her breasts pressing against the soft cotton of her top. Was it the pink one or the yellow one? Didn’t matter, he could see her nipples through both.

“Touch yourself,” he murmured. “Slide down the strap of your top and touch yourself.”

A sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line told him she was either doing what he’d asked or doing a damn god job faking it. He preferred to imagine the former, and he closed his eyes to picture her with her palm cupping her breast.

“Remember me touching you in the bathroom the other day?” he asked. “The way I rubbed my palms over your breasts so softly you were whimpering and pressing against me?”

“God, yes,” she whispered.

“I want you to imagine I’m touching you right now. Picture my hands on you.”

“I am. I have been for days.”

“Soft circles,” he murmured. “So soft, you’re barely touching yourself.”

“Schwartz.” It was half moan, half question, and he wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Yeah?”

“Touch yourself, too, please? If we can’t—I mean, at least we can—”

He hesitated, wondering if that crossed the line into territory where he could lose his head or his heart or any other body parts he needed to do the job his family was trusting him to do.

There’s only one body part you’re involving here.

He knew it was a lie, but he wanted to believe it anyway.

“Okay.”

He slid his hand to the front of his body, gripping himself firmly as he pictured her there on the other side of the wall. He began to stroke, taking his time, wanting to make sure he stayed in control here.

“God, you feel good,” she murmured, and he had to admit she was right.

“Are you still touching your breasts?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. I want you to slide one hand down. Move your palm over your ribs, down your side, around your belly.”

“Mmm.”

“So soft.”

“Yes.”

“Think of my hands on you like that. Stroking you, moving down, sliding the tips of my fingers under your waistband. How does it feel?”