Not One Clue_ A Mystery Part 30

"Are you serious?"

I bristled immediately. "Of course I'm serious."

"He had a handgun and you have a can of puke juice and you asked him to let her go?"

"I'm a trained psychologist, Rivera. It's not as if I just fell out of the cabbage patch or something. I have some working knowledge of how people's minds-"

"Jesus," he said, and scrubbed his face with one hand. "Why can't I just have a girlfriend who doesn't feel it's necessary to play Wonder Woman every day of her frickin' life?"

"-work. In fact ..." I blinked. "What did you say?" I asked, but just then my front door burst open.

We jerked toward it in unison, I with my Mace, Rivera with his big-a.s.s phallic symbol.

Ramla gasped and halted in the doorway, eyes wide, mouth open.

There was a blink of silence, then, "My sister," she rasped, attention darting from Rivera to me. "She is gone. I but went to the-"

It was then that Aalia appeared again.

The two women stared at each other for one abbreviated instant, then rushed into each other's arms. A stream of dialogue I couldn't decipher followed. There wasn't much point in interrupting.

"Thank you," Ramla said finally. She was clasping Aalia's hand. "Christina." She nodded solemnly at me, then at Rivera. "Lieutenant, you have my grat.i.tude everlasting."

He was back to his full-body scowl. "I'll have more questions for her later," he warned.

"She will not leave the house. I will make certain of it," Ramla said, and ushered her sister toward the door.

Rivera accompanied them to the Al-Sadrs' house. In his absence, I tried to think. It didn't go particularly well. I needed a couple months to reflect on things. It was less than a minute before he returned.

"You shouldn't have gone outside," he said, approaching rapidly and resuming the conversation where we'd left it.

"Does that mean I'm not your girlfriend?"

He closed his eyes and rolled his head as if his neck hurt. "It means you're a loose cannon, McMullen. s.h.i.+t! A two-year-old would have known enough to stay inside."

"So I'm not a two-year-old."

"No." His eyes seared me like I was a fine filet. "You're a full-grown woman who constantly insists on getting shot."

"That's just it!" I said, adrenaline rus.h.i.+ng through me, jumbling my thoughts. I hadn't been anybody's girlfriend for a long time. "I didn't didn't get shot. I thought I had but-" get shot. I thought I had but-"

My own stupidity stopped my words in their proverbial tracks.

The room had gone deadly silent.

"But what?" he asked. He was standing close enough to scatter my brain waves.

"I ..." I shrugged. "I was wrong."

"He shot at you?" Anger danced a tight jig in his lean-muscled cheek.

"Is it too late to get back to the part about my being your girlfriend?"

"The b.a.s.t.a.r.d shot shot at you?" He gritted his teeth as he s.h.i.+fted positions and glared at the back door. at you?" He gritted his teeth as he s.h.i.+fted positions and glared at the back door.

"No. No," I said, shaking my head tentatively. "I just thought ... Maybe it was someone's car backfiring or something."

"Maybe you should move to a different neighborhood."

"Not just this minute," I said, and taking the one step that separated us, distracted him with a kiss.

24.

Guys don't make pa.s.ses at girls with big a.s.ses.-Peter McMullen, shortly before Chrissy knocked him unconscious Rivera pulled away from the kiss, dark eyes smoking.

"Jesus, McMullen, you sure you went to that party alone?" Perhaps he had somehow sensed my s.e.xual frustration.

"As a matter of fact," I said, "I tried calling you. Left you a voice mail." I didn't mention the fact that I was just calling to make sure he was busy and couldn't couldn't attend the premiere. "You didn't bother returning my call." attend the premiere. "You didn't bother returning my call."

Maybe there was a smidgen of guilt in his expression. I pressed my advantage. "I admit I didn't really feel like going alone, but you'd be surprised what I've learned to do solo."

I didn't really plan for the statement to sound suggestive, but the words were out there, along with the vibes. I watched his eyes go sultry. His nostrils flared.

"Lucky for me you made it home without some jacka.s.s sniffing at your tail."

"Fortunate," I said, and raised my chin a little as estrogen sluiced through me. Hold on to the gunwale, girls, it's high tide.

"Holy Jesus," he said, and glancing down at the gown's iridescent fabric, cupped my left breast. It made me reconsider selling it. "Is this dress painted on?"

"Yeah." I hoped to sound sa.s.sy, but would have been grateful for coherent. "It washes right off."

He drew a deep breath and skimmed his hand over my ribs to my waist. "You must have had your Mace handy at the party, too."

"I kept it around my neck," I said. "Right between my b.o.o.bs."

He dropped his gaze from my eyes to my body and stopped. "I take it your cell phone was occupied elsewhere at the time?"

I glanced down. I'd totally forgotten I'd shoved it in there. Reaching up, I snagged it from its cozy spot. My b.r.e.a.s.t.s sprang back into place like warm bread dough.

By the time I glanced up, his eyes were shooting sparks like fireworks. A muscle jumped in his jaw. "When did we first meet, McMullen?" he asked, and moving a little closer, slipped his palm around my waist and over the slinky fabric barely covering my a.s.s.

I shrugged, trying to look casual, but s.h.i.+t, I could hardly breathe. He expected me to employ my memory?

"August twenty-fourth, 2005," he said.

"Yeah?" I was a little giddy at the fact that he knew the exact date. Or maybe there were other reasons.

"Yeah," he said, and s.h.i.+fted a hard-muscled thigh between my own. "And you still haven't f.u.c.ked me." His quads contracted against me, but swooning was no longer an option. Taking him down like a overs.e.xed grizzly, however ...

"The timing's been iffy," I said. "Too many phone calls."

"You know what they say about timing," he said, and kissed the corner of my mouth.

"I don't believe I do." The tone of my voice suggested I didn't know much.

"There's no time like the present."

"That is is a time-honored sentiment." a time-honored sentiment."

"And you're wearing that do-me dress."

Maybe I should have argued with that, but it hardly seemed worth the effort. Besides, when he slid his hand up my derriere I couldn't have argued with anything. His fingers trailed from the slippery fabric onto my bare skin.

Some say near-death experiences heighten the senses. It might be true, because my senses were honed in on him like a bird dog on a chicken wing. I felt his fingers tickle against my back even as the knuckles of his left hand whispered featherlike over my chest, across the swell of my b.o.o.bs, and onto my neck. His breath smelled of ecstasy in waiting as he kissed the corner of my mouth.

"Do-me earrings," he said as he slipped his fingers beneath my glittery hoops and cupped my neck with his palm.

His lips against my collarbone made my knees go weak. I'll never know exactly how we ended up on the couch, but we did. I was leaning up against the armrest like a drunken sailor and he was sitting beneath my knees.

He ran his hands up the arch of my left foot to my ankle.

I'm afraid I didn't quite manage to stifle my moan. He grinned, then propped the pad of my foot against his hip and moved his hands upward, slipping the gown away as he went.

"Do-me legs," he said.

I had never been happier in my life that I had actually shaved. The gown was just past my knees now. I sighed as he ma.s.saged my calf. My muscles went lax. My foot slipped forward. It pressed up against his erection.

Our gazes met, fire on lighter fluid. And then he was leaning across the couch, between my legs, eyes dark and intense and- He stopped, gaze s.h.i.+fting just the slightest degree, body freezing instantly. I felt the drop in temperature immediately.

My mind was scrambling. I turned toward the rear of the house, and then I realized what he was looking at; Vincent had dropped his tie near the back door.

"Who did you say your escort was?" he asked.

I have nothing against lying. In fact, it's generally my first instinct, but it had been a c.o.o.n's age since I'd seen a guy naked. I wanted to something awful, but history suggested that Rivera wasn't the kind who really appreciated creative fabrications.

I held my breath for an instant, fighting honesty, then, "I can't tell you."

He was frozen above me, one arm braced against the back of the couch, one on the armrest. His biceps stood out in taut relief beneath his dark, touchable skin, and his eyes were screaming lewd suggestions that I dearly wanted to take him up on. "Can't or won't?" His voice was low, gruff, warning me to give the right answer. But Vincent had helped me out long ago when I had needed a friend, and I had no intention of betraying his trust.

"He did me a favor."

His eyes were dark and deadly, but somehow my hormones didn't give a s.h.i.+t that I couldn't tell if he planned to kiss me or kill me.

"Lots of guys would, McMullen," he said. "If given a chance."

I felt anger course through me, but I held it in check. "How sweet of you to say."

He stared at me. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

I swallowed. "It doesn't matter who I was with," I said, and found that with his hard-muscled body pressed against me, I had very little pride. A b.u.t.t-load of libido, but very little pride. "I didn't do anything with him."

"Except nearly get yourself killed."

"That's not his fault."

"Then why not tell me who he is?"

I scowled. "He's semifamous and doesn't want anyone to know-" I stopped, realizing the flaw in my reasoning. If he didn't want anyone to know we were together he certainly wouldn't have attended a public event with me, but Rivera had already jumped past that point.

"Know what?" he asked. "That he had a gun?"

"What? No. I-"

"He was the one who fired the shot, wasn't he?"

I winced.

"A gun that is probably not registered."

"Listen, Rivera, I didn't know-"

Anger chased frustration across his face. "What?" His voice had risen. His teeth were gritted. He stalked to my easy chair and turned. "That you could have been shot? That you could have been raped and tortured and murdered?"

"Don't get-"

"Dramatic?" he asked, and laughed as he jerked into a seated position. The warmth of his body abandoned me, and in that instant I felt my eyes fill with tears.

He glanced at me, looking angry as h.e.l.l. "No!" he said. "You are not not going to cry." going to cry."

I sniffled a little, feeling like a ninny.

He levered himself to his feet and pointed dramatically toward the back of the house. "You were just accosted by some madman, woman! That's when you should have cried ... or screamed or swooned or some G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing. But did you? No. You ran out there in a mermaid suit, waving an aerosol can. So don't pretend you're getting all teary-eyed because I raised my voice."

I shook my head, searching for the temper that usually saves me from that particular brand of humiliation. "It's not that. I just ..." I pressed my knuckles to my nose to stop the flow of snot. "Does this mean you're not going to sleep with me?"

It may have been the dumbest thing I'd ever said, but the words were out there, searing me with their soppy honesty.

For a second every muscle in his body tensed. Then he swore and stormed across the floor. Bending, he scooped me into his arms. His chest felt hard against my b.o.o.bs, his lips fire-hot against mine as he kissed me.

"You're driving me f.u.c.king crazy." He kind of panted the words. My arms had wound themselves around his neck.

"What kind of crazy?" My words came out as a kitten-soft whisper.