Unplugged (31 page)

“I just . . . I . . .” I almost spilled the truth, almost told him everything. I felt alone and vulnerable and scared. And he was . . . well, he was Rivera. Impenetrable and irritating as hell. But I remembered the strangled sound of Solberg’s voice on the other end of the line. Life or death. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

He stared at me. I wiped my sweaty palms on my skirt. It looked like hell anyway. I held his gaze as best I could and in a moment he jerked to his feet.

“Christ,” he said, running his hand over his face and turning away to stare out my kitchen window.

His back was rigid, his hips narrow, his legs lean. His dark dress pants were wrinkled, and his shirt had come partly untucked. For some reason the sight of it made me want to blubber like a baby and confess all.

“Not even locked,” he said, and shook his head as he turned back toward me. “Would it kill you to lock the window? To be just a little bit aware?”

“I’m aware.”

He snorted.

“I check for strange cars all the time.”

“Really? Where’s my Jeep parked?”

I scowled at him. “I was kind of tired—”

“Good God,” he said, and retrieving his plate, turned toward the sink.

“What are you doing?”

“Cleaning up,” he snarled. “When you’re murdered in your sleep you don’t want to have a messy kitchen, do you?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“You haven’t thought about a lot of things.”

His patronizing tone made me feel a little pissy. I snatched my dishes from the table and slapped them down beside his. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Yeah?” He faced me, eyes snapping. “Maybe I think it’s wrong for you to be an idiot.”

“I’m not—”

The phone rang on the counter beside me.

He glared at it. “Who’s that?”

“Still not psychic.”

It blared again.

“Answer it.”

“I’ll answer it if I want—”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he said, and shoved me toward the phone. “Answer it.”

I picked up the receiver, glaring as I did so.

“Hello.”

“Where is he?” The voice was low and gravelly.

The blood froze in my veins. I snapped my gaze to Rivera. His eyes narrowed immediately and he stepped close.

“I . . . I think you have the wrong number,” I said.

“Tell me where he is or you’ll wish to hell you had,” said the voice. The phone slipped from my hand like pudding.

Rivera caught it and brought it to his ear in one smooth motion. “Who is this?” His brows lowered like dark clouds. “Who the hell is this?”

The click on the far end was audible. He slammed down the phone.

“Sit down,” he said.

I remained standing, staring numbly.

“Sit the hell down,” he said, and pushed me onto a chair. Twisting me toward him with his hands on my upper arms, he stared into my eyes. “Who was that?”

I shrugged.

“Damn it, McMullen, answer me.”

“I don’t know who it was.”

“What’d he say?”

I blinked. “He asked where he is.”

“Where who is?”

“I don’t know.”

He shook me. My head bobbled loosely. “Who?”

“He didn’t say.” My eyes stung. I wondered rather vaguely if I was going to cry again, or if I was crying already.

He tugged me to my feet and led me like a lost lamb to my sofa. I sat down without being told, like a big girl.

“Have you had other threatening calls?” He was looming over me.

I shook my head.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Okay.” I was beaten. Beaten and scared.

“Have you heard his voice before?”

“I don’t know.”

“It didn’t sound familiar?”

“There wasn’t enough time.”

He cursed and paced. “I shouldn’t have spoken. Should of had you keep talking.” He cursed and paced again, but in a minute he sat down beside me. I turned toward him.

“Think hard, Chrissy. Did it sound like anyone you know?”

I thought hard. It made my head hurt. I shook it. He inhaled carefully. He looked big and hard and strong. I felt small and soft and weak.

“Tell me about the night you were attacked.”

I considered lying, but I was too tired. I told him everything. Well, I might have neglected the part about the disk I’d stolen from Solberg’s house, but I didn’t see any reason to slip past the stupid line and into the too-stupid-to-live area.

He asked questions. I told him more.

He nodded, rose to his feet, and paced. I watched him.

“You should get some sleep.”

I blinked at him, numb as a newel post.

“Come on.” He held out his hand.

I took it. He led me to the bedroom and glanced around.

“Where are your pajamas?”

“Pajamas?”

The left corner of his mouth jerked up a hair. “You don’t sleep in the nude, do you?”

“Mom says nice girls don’t do that,” I said, and realized rather belatedly that he was unbuttoning my blouse. I glanced down. “What are you doing?”

“I think I might be undressing you.”

“Whaaa—” The sound I made was something between a gas leak and a siren. I jerked away. My buttons were undone almost to my navel. “You can’t undress me.”

He raised his brows. “Awake now?”

“Get out of here.”

He shook his head. “I’m staying with you tonight.”

I laughed out loud. It sounded better than the “whaaa,” but not by much. I buttoned my blouse with tingly fingers. “You are not.”

“Here or in jail,” he said.

I gritted my teeth and shoved him.

He rocked back a step, laughed, and lifted his hand to my cheek. “Where the hell have you been all night, McMullen?” he asked, his voice soft, his eyes like dark, crystal balls, pulling me in. “I sort of missed you.”

Feelings skittered through my parched system. I tried to hose them down, but my water pressure was weak. “Go away,” I said.

He shook his head. “Hope you’re not the kind to hog the covers.”

My mouth dropped open. He put a hand beneath my jaw and closed it, then turned with a chuckle and paced into my living room.

I followed him in numb silence. By the time I caught up he had taken off his shoes and was unbuttoning his shirt. It was a moment before I could find my voice.

“What are you doing?”

“Your virtue is safe, Chrissy. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“No you won’t.”

He opened his shirt. During the past three months I had spent a considerable amount of time trying to convince myself that, despite my lurid memories, Jack Rivera was not built like a chiseled Greek god. I hadn’t been very successful. One sight of him half-naked and I remembered why. I braced myself against the wall beside me.

“You have to leave,” I said.

He tilted his head in disagreement and removed his gun.

I watched the movement—brown hands against smooth-grained wood. A dark metal barrel against the backdrop of his rippled obliques.

Now, I like to think I’m a mature woman, one not inclined to wild, girlish fantasies. I don’t like macho men, and I have long since put my obsession with Batman behind me. But my knees felt a little sloppy, and my mind was chanting something like “Gimme, gimme, gimme.”

He set the gun on the end table and straightened.

“Something you need, McMullen?” he asked.

My mouth was open again. I nodded. The movement was jerky. “Yeah,” I said bravely. “I need . . .” The world swam by in lurid slow motion. “You to leave.”

He laughed. The sound rippled like hot-buttered rum through my battered system.

He reached for his belt. And suddenly, somehow—I don’t know how—I found myself gripping his buckle in both hands, holding his pants together as if it were Pandora’s infamous box.

He stared down at me.

“Swear to God, Rivera,” I said, “if you take off your pants, I’ll call the cops.”

His mouth twitched. “I am the cops, McMullen.” He tilted his head. “And I do.”

His abdomen was hard and warm against my knuckles. My throat felt like it was being strangled from the inside. “You do what?” I croaked.

“Sleep naked.”

My stomach dropped to floor level. “Not here you don’t,” I breathed.

His hands moved. Mine tightened on his fingers and the offensive belt buckle.

“You can’t expect me to sleep in my pants,” he said.

“Your pants, your shirt.” I thought I felt a pulse beating in my eyelids. “Maybe a full suit of armor.”

He chuckled. I could feel the movement in his abdomen “My last breastplate rusted, McMullen.”

“I’ll run out and buy you a new one.”

“All the armor shops close at nine. I think you should get some sleep.”

“Sleep!” I was making funny noises again. Something between a snort and a hiccup. “I can’t sleep, with you . . .” I loosened one hand from his belt and waved rather wildly at something between him and the toilet bowl. “I can’t sleep with you . . .”

He raised one brow.

“In here . . . without . . .”

“I’m not going to molest you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said.

“Well.” I laughed. “That’s a relief. I mean, whew! ’Cuz that’s what . . .” I was wheezing like an exhausted hyena “That’s what I was worried about. That you’d . . .” I felt panicky and as high as a kite. Maybe he’d drugged my meal after all. Maybe I had no choice but to sleep with him. And holy shit, last time I’d had a half-naked guy in my house, he’d been fixing the kitchen sink and up to his hairy armpits in sledge. “That you’d—” I began again, but then he kissed me.

Fireworks zipped from my head to my toes and back.

“Jesus, you drive me crazy,” he murmured.

I was breathing hard. Not panting, of course. Panting would be uncouth.

“You’re not even my type,” he said, and kissed me again.

I may have whimpered, just a little. “Rivera. Listen. Sometimes . . .” I licked my lips. “Self-restraint isn’t my long suit.”

“Yeah?” He kissed my neck. “What is?”

My head fell back. “Tuba?” I suggested.

He drew back slightly, watching me.

“I’m a hell of a tuba player.”

He chuckled, and reached for my buttons again. I tried to stop him. Really. But my fingers were too busy. His chest felt like sun-warmed marble beneath my palms as I pushed his shirt aside.

He ran his hands down my arms, peeling my blouse away. I shivered hopelessly and pressed against him.

He moaned. Or maybe it was me. I hope it wasn’t me.

“Christ, you’re beautiful.”

I hope that wasn’t me, too.

His hands were on my bra strap. I tried to escape, but only managed to arch into him. Then suddenly, he froze.

“You hear something?” he asked.

I shook my head and hoped it wasn’t my panting that had distracted him, but suddenly a gun appeared in his hand.

“What . . . ?” I began, but he motioned for silence and backed carefully against the wall. He stood, bare-chested and beautiful, his gun raised nearly to his shoulder.

“Disarm your system, then lock the door behind me and stay away from the windows.”

“Lock the—”

“Hurry,” he said.

I punched in the appropriate numbers. He jerked the door open and popped outside.

I locked the door with unsteady fingers This was insanity. Like living with Tarzan. I wasn’t sure I was up to being Jane. I was more like a . . . Mildred.

I stood frozen beside the door for a while. When that got unbearable, I paced, jumping at every inexplicable sound.

After a couple of decades, a knock sounded at my door. I froze, darted my eyes toward the offensive portal, and ceased to breathe. “Who is it?”

“Let me in.”

My heart rate went through the stratosphere. “Who’s there?”

“Jesus, McMullen. It’s me. Let me in.”

I waited. The voice sounded irritable enough to be Rivera, but maybe it was a trick, and I was supposed to stay away from the window, and maybe they’d gotten Rivera, and were—

“Let me in, McMullen, or I’m gonna break your damned window.”

Oh, yeah, it was Rivera.

22

Money talks. Mostly it says, “So long, sucka.”

—Pete McMullen,
after his fourth divorce

R
IVERA DIDN’T FIND
anyone lurking about my domicile, but the interruption gave me a chance to hose down my raging endocrine system.

What the hell had I been thinking anyway? I didn’t need a man to screw up my life. I was perfectly capable of doing that on my own. Messing around with a guy like Rivera would only set me on the fast track to disaster. He was a barbarian—an old-world warrior with new-world weaponry. And what weaponry.

But I hadn’t let him draw his gun. Instead, I’d sentenced myself to solitary confinement in the jail I like to call my boudoir.

We were coolly mature when morning arrived, and even though Rivera looked like a sleepy sex machine with his hair messed and his eyes heavy-lidded, I didn’t drag him into my private cell and have my way with him.

Instead, I had a bowl of Raisin Bran while he tied his shoes and informed me I’d have to file an official statement. I nodded and chewed, knuckles white around my spoon as I watched him bend over his other shoe. He made me promise to keep my doors locked, call him if anything suspicious happened, and stay in the house all day.

I thought about that as I sat across from my first Tuesday morning client.

I also thought about the phone call. Whoever it was hadn’t asked where “it” was. He’d asked about “him.” The him had to be Solberg. But why? They didn’t want Combot. They didn’t want the embezzled money. They wanted him? So the only explanation was that Solberg hadn’t been the one to steal the money. In fact, I was certain he’d been the one to find out about the stolen money.

I barely noticed when my client left, although I should have been listening, because he hadn’t yet reached his twentieth birthday and he had two kids, a drug addiction, and a mortgage. He might have made my life look better by comparison.