Unplugged (34 page)

He opened his mouth as if to object, then turned his gooey gaze on Elaine once more. “Everything’s a little shady, I guess, ’cept Laney,” he said, and gave her a moony stare. I squelched my gag reflex. “She’s all sunshine.”

I realized then that it was time for him to leave. I hadn’t had a cigarette in two days and my nerves were a little frazzled.

Mom had called five times in as many hours. I’d let my answering machine take each one, and although she never explained her reason for contacting me, the tone of her voice was acidic enough to fry the poor machine’s circuits. It was a safe bet that she’d heard about my not-so-sisterly advice to Holly.

“Well,” I said, and stood up, “all’s well that ends well.”

“Yeah, hey.” Solberg glanced up as if awakening from a dream. “You, me, and Laney should double it sometime.”

“Double what?”

“Double date.”

“Wouldn’t that be more like a triple?” And creepy. I opened my front door.

He brayed like a zebroid. “You could get a date. I was thinking, I got a pal at NeoTech. Name’s Bennet, Ross Bennet. You’d like him.”

Oh, crap. I felt my stomach loop. I still had Bennet’s checkbook. Tucked in between the deposit slips, I’d found a picture of a yacht. I had a bad feeling the account was nothing more scandalous than savings for some big-ass boat.

Since I now knew he hadn’t murdered Solberg and didn’t have any plans of decapitating me with his steak knives, I’d have to call him . . . later . . . or maybe I could somehow drop his checkbook into his car or something.

“No, thanks,” I said.

“Come on, doll,” Solberg said. “It’d be fun. Laney’d like that, wouldn’t you, Angel?”

She looked at me. Her eyes were laughing. She pulled her hand out of his, wrapped her arms around my shoulders, and hugged me. “I love you, Mac,” she said.

I teared up immediately. Probably allergies. “You’re not bad yourself, Sugar.”

She laughed, but when she pulled away, her eyes were misty, too.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about,” Solberg said, not understanding the joke but glancing from me to Elaine and back like an ugly puppy. “We’d have a smash together.”

“It’s time to go,” Elaine said.

“But—” he began.

She linked her arm through his and drew him onto my cracked front walk.

“Oh, okay,” he said, and followed along like a pull toy.

I closed the door and returned to my kitchen. It seemed a little empty. Which, considering Solberg, could be a good thing. But considering the thugs who had recently tried to kill me, didn’t seem so great. In fact—

I heard something in my vestibule and froze.

Footsteps tapped quietly across the linoleum. I reached for the drawer to my right and grabbed a butcher knife.

“McMullen.”

I jumped like a tree frog.

Rivera was glaring at me from the doorway, making me droop with relief.

“Is there something fundamentally wrong with you?” he asked. He was wearing blue jeans gone gray with age and a plain brown jersey of the same vintage.

I drew a few careful breaths, just to prove I could. “What are you talking—”

“Why the hell don’t you lock your door?” he asked, advancing steadily.

“Elaine just left,” I said. I was going for bravado, but my voice might have cracked a little.

“So you’re sure some crazy, knife-toting drug addict won’t jump you for another half an hour? You think there’s a time limit on these things?”

I tried to glare at him while simultaneously shifting a worried gaze to the door. No crazy, knife-toting drug addicts in sight. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Just visiting,” he said, and reaching into my cupboard for a glass, poured himself some papaya juice. After tasting it, he made a face, glanced at the curdling beverage, and raised his gaze to mine. “What the hell are you doing with that spoon?”

I looked in the direction of my right hand. There was no butcher knife. But there was a good heavy mixing utensil.

I scowled at it, then at him. “I was thinking of baking a cake.”

He made some sort of indefinable noise that might have indicated disbelief. “Hope you got some groceries since my last visit, then.”

“I did.”

“Uh-huh.” He paced over to my pantry, bent over, and peered inside. His ass was as tight as a walnut. “What kind of woman doesn’t keep flour in her house?”

“One that’s too busy trying to stay alive when the local cops can’t keep a girl safe in her own backyard.”

He turned toward me with a smirk. “You been practicing that line?”

“No.”

He raised his brows.

“Well . . . just for a little while.”

His lips quirked up devilishly. He moved closer. “How’s it going with you and Bennet?”

“I, ummm . . .” How was it that this Neanderthal always smelled so damned good? He should stink like wildebeest dung and rotting meat. “Fine,” I said. “We’re doing fine.”

“Yeah? So you’re seeing him again?”

I forced myself to shrug. “Sure. He’s a nice guy,” I said.

He tilted his head noncommittally. “He says you showed up at his house dressed sexy and acting weird.”

I stiffened. Why the hell would a man tell another man that? Was nothing sacred? “I did not dress . . .” I paused, winced, changed course. “I did not act weird.”

He half smiled. “I assured him that’s normal for you.”

“I think you got the wrong idea, Rivera. I was on my way home from . . . church and—”

“He thinks you stole his checkbook.”

My mouth remained open. I cut my eyes toward the front door.

“Did you happen to steal his checkbook, Chrissy?”

“Why ever would I . . . ?” My voice sounded creaky, and stupid. I tried again. “Why would I steal his checkbook?”

He shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me why you do half the things you do. So you swear you didn’t take it?”

My lips moved. Nothing came out.

“Maybe it accidentally fell into your purse.”

I glared at him. “I didn’t steal it. Exactly.”

“What did you do . . . exactly?”

“Well, Solberg hadn’t shown up and—”

“You thought Bennet murdered him. So you dropped in at his house in a sexy getup and pinched his wallet. Makes perfect sense to me.”

I could only assume he was being facetious. “I had every intention of returning it.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“I did. I—”

“I’m not doubting you.”

“I swear I didn’t—” I began, then gave him a dubious glance. “You believe me?”

He shrugged. “You’re not the villainous type, McMullen,” he said, and setting his juice aside, settled his butt against my counter. Lucky damn counter.

“I’m not?”

“You’re more the type to naïvely get involved with the villainous type.” His eyes were all crinkly at the corners. I kind of have a thing for crinkly-cornered eyes. “Although, I have to admit, you have an outstanding ability to piss people off.”

“I do not. I can be extremely diplomatic.”

“Can you?”

“Yes.”

“Like you were with Hilary Pershing?”

“How—” I stopped myself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He chuckled. The sound did funny things to my insides. “She said she found some nutcase—her words, not mine—peering in her bedroom window.”

“Really?”

“Said this alleged nutcase was trying to pass herself off as a police officer.”

I refrained from telling him she had bought the lie—line, hook, and sinker.

“How odd.”

“Agreed,” he said. “Tiffany Georges is threatening to sue the city.”

“Oh, crap!”

He laughed at me.

I don’t like to be laughed at, and straightened my back. He watched me with a crooked half grin.

“Well,” I said, “if the cops would keep a closer eye on things—”

“What then, Chrissy?” he asked. “There wouldn’t be so many dreaded show cats in one house and folks burying things in their own backyards?”

I sharpened my glare and kept my mouth firmly shut.

“Everyone has a secret,” he said. “You had a shitload of them. That’s why I’ve had someone watching you for a week or so.”

“You were—”

“Todd thought you made him in the Toyota, so we had to keep switching vehicles.”

“Was there an SUV?”

“There’s always an SUV.”

“So you were watching my office, too?”

“Todd knew something was up the minute Elaine was two minutes late from her lunch break. I think he might be hoping she’ll bear his children. Anyway, soon as you locked up shop in the middle of the day, he had a hunch and called for backup.”

“That’s why the SWAT team showed up so fast,” I said, but suddenly I heard a strange clicking sound in my vestibule. A moment later a monster came bounding through the doorway to my kitchen. It was the size of a small whale. I lifted the spoon in self-defense.

Rivera bent down and gathered the flop-eared beast into his arms. “There you are.”

I lowered the spoon. Apparently the ogre wasn’t hungry right now. “What is that thing?” I asked.

“What is it?” He straightened slightly, jeans stretched tight across his hips. Lucky jeans. “It’s a dog. What’d you think it was?”

It’s back was nearly level with my counter. It had ears like bicolored sails and a mouth big enough to swallow me whole. I’m not very large. “A cross between a bear and a sea cow?” I ventured.

“He’s just a puppy.”

“I’m sure you’re wrong.” I watched them frolic together. Rivera frolicking. Weird. And not alluring. Really.

“Guy in Eagle Rock found him trying to eat his oleander,” he said, glancing up. “That stuff’s poisonous, you know. So don’t plant any in your front yard. Stick with the cactus. It can survive anything. Even you.” He tugged at the piebald ears. “I haven’t had a puppy since Rockette was little.”

Rockette—Rivera’s dumb-ass excuse for leaving me high and dry not too many weeks earlier. “Uh-huh,” I said cautiously. “What’s that thing doing in my kitchen?”

“Poor guy was starving.” He gave it a smart slap on its ribs. It wagged its tail and circled ecstatically. The damn thing looked like it was still starving.

“Why’s it here?” I asked again.

He straightened. There was a spark of something diabolic in his eyes. “You left your door unlocked.”

I shook my head. No comprehension.

“You habitually forget to man your security system.”

“What—”

“Your windows aren’t properly secured.”

“That—”

“You don’t have the sense of a butterfly.”

“I do, too, have—”

“You need a dog.”

My mouth fell open. I blinked at him and breathed a disbelieving laugh. “There are a lot of things I need,” I said. “A manicure.” I held up a hand as proof. “A new septic system. A smoothie maker. But I don’t—”

“You need a dog.”

“I do not need a dog.”

The thing took off into my living room, loping like a delighted, wind-powered elephant.

“You don’t have to arm it.”

“I don’t even like dogs,” I said, temper rising.

He took a step toward me. “And I don’t like worrying about you every damned second of the day.”

“Well, you . . .” I drew a deep breath and gave in to thought. Some might have said it was about time. “You worry about me?”

He took another step forward. His eyes were fudge-brownie dark today. “You don’t have the sense of a toy poodle.”

I thought maybe I should be offended, but he was standing awfully close.

“You really worry about me?” I asked.

He took away the spoon, led me to the couch, and pulled me down beside him. The so-called dog took up most of the available space, forcing us to sit hip to hip. Rivera’s was hard and lean and attached to other interesting parts. Maybe dogs weren’t so bad after all.

“That’s why I should stay the night,” he said, “to keep you safe from all the knife-wielding crazies.”

My jaw dropped. “What?”

He grinned and rubbed his thumb across the hollow of my palm. I didn’t drool. “That didn’t come out quite like rehearsed,” he said. “But let’s concentrate on the staying-the-night part. We were interrupted last time. I thought maybe I could make that up to you.”

“Well, I just . . .” It was getting difficult to breathe. Men! They tend to do bad things to my equilibrium and my thinking apparatus. “I don’t know if that would be—”

He pushed a strand of hair away from my face, grazing my cheek with his fingertips. I felt my brain go soft.

“I could sleep on the couch if you really want me to.”

“Well, I don’t know.” I swallowed hard. “Did you bring your armor?”

“No armor. In fact, I think I may have forgotten my boxers,” he said, and kissed me.

About the Author

LOIS GREIMAN lives in Minnesota, where she rides horses, embarrasses her teenage daughter, and forces her multiple personalities into indentured servitude by making them characters in her novels. Write to her at
[email protected]
. One of her alter egos will probably write back.

Also by Lois Greiman

UNZIPPED

Dear Reader,

I hope you enjoyed getting
Unplugged
, ’cuz next we’re getting . . .
UNSCREWED
.

That’s right, poor Chrissy still can’t quite get her ducks in a row. In fact, just when things seem to be going swimmingly with Lieutenant Rivera, his sexy ex-girlfriend—who happens to be his estranged father’s fiancée—is found dead next to Rivera’s unconscious body.

Accusations fly, familial bonds are stretched, and there’s no shortage of suspects. Maybe Rivera senior killed the poor girl, as the lieutenant himself is determined to prove. Maybe his hot-blooded Spanish mother had a hand in the act, or maybe Rivera himself did the deed in a fit of passion. But one thing’s sure: Chrissy is determined to stay out of the mix . . . for about thirteen seconds.

Tequila with Rivera’s mother, a date with his wealthy father, and steamy conversations with the lieutenant’s ex-girlfriends teach Chrissy more than she ever wanted to know. But she can’t seem to quit snooping, especially when Rivera threatens to tie her to her bedrail if she doesn’t—and her curiosity may have deadly consequences.