Tempest In The Tea Leaves Part 9

"Me either."

"Besides, you're on top."

"Oh . . ." Soft snowflakes started to fall from the darkening sky above us and stuck to his thick, sooty eyelashes as he gazed up at me, looking troubled and confused. That made two of us.

I blinked and my lips parted.

He stared and licked his lips.

My head started to lower with a will of its own, and he didn't pull away. I had almost made contact when a car horn sounded from down the street, and we both jumped. I scrambled to my feet, and he frowned, rolling to his feet much slower.

"We need to talk," he said.

"Ya think?" I squeaked.

"Not here."

"Then where?"

"My place." He nailed me with a hard stare. "I'm not going near that demon cat of yours."

I swallowed dryly. "Take the lead, Detective."

He locked eyes on me for a good ten seconds, then said, "Don't worry, Tink. I plan to."

8.

I followed Mitch home and parked my bug in the driveway of his apartment complex. The building was made of red brick to better withstand the lake effect snow the area gets hammered with all winter long.

"You coming, Tink?" Mitch turned around and looked down at me from his perch on the staircase.

Of course he had to live on the top floor in an apartment with a cast-iron staircase on the outside of the building. Just my luck. I was freezing, and my sneakers were slippery. Not like boots made for snow and ice. I really hadn't been prepared for a sleuthing expedition, but I'd sooner fall on my b.u.t.t than admit that to Detective Stone.

As though reading my mind, he grabbed my hand and pulled me along behind him, ignoring my slips and stumbles. Finally we reached the top. He unlocked the door and held it open for me to pa.s.s through.

"Thanks," I said, stepping inside and surveying his home.

I blinked, totally surprised. I would have thought he'd have the standard bachelor pad, but he didn't. Black leather furniture filled the room, white painted bookshelves lined the walls, and fabulous paintings of New York City were strategically placed around the room. Marble sculptures sat atop tile-and-gla.s.s end tables and the coffee table.

Modern, elegant, and cla.s.sy-who knew?

"I can cook, too." Mitch narrowed his eyes at my expression, closed the door behind him, and hung up his sports coat. He set his gun on the table and rolled up the sleeves of his dress s.h.i.+rt.

"Wow, I just thought . . . wow."

"It's one of those 'you can take the man out of the city, but you can't take the city out of the man' things, I guess." He headed for the kitchen. "There's a fleece throw inside the ottoman if you're cold."

I lifted the top off the ottoman and pulled out the softest, most luxurious fleece blanket with gorgeous tigers scattered all over the fabric in various poses. Powerful and dangerous creatures, yet extremely gentle when they wanted to be.

Kind of reminded me of someone else.

Mitch carried a cup of coffee for himself and cocoa for me into the living room and set them on the coffee table in front of the couch. I gave him a surprised look, but he hoisted a shoulder and said, "Just a guess," making me wonder what that was supposed to mean. He stared at me with his hands on his hips for a moment and then chose the seat beside me on the b.u.t.tery-smooth leather couch.

The smell of leather, soap, and the outdoors drifted past my nose. Instinctively, I scooted back an inch.

"Why did you bring me here?" I asked, not sure I wanted to know the answer.

He blew out a huge breath and looked me in the eye. "It seems we have no choice except to work together, but neither one of us can do our jobs efficiently if we don't clear the air between us."

"The air looks clear to me," I sputtered.

"Are you kidding me? It's full of tension, and I can't take it anymore." He surged to his feet and began to pace the room, then stopped and faced me, square on. "You're acting weirder than usual, Tink."

My jaw unhinged.

"Don't give me that look." He pointed at me. "I want to know why."

"Trust me, you really don't." I let out a sigh. "Thank you for the cocoa, by the way, but I'm afraid it's not going to be enough to get me through this conversation." I patted the seat beside me. "Sit down. You're putting a crick in my neck."

He eyed me warily and then sat beside me on the couch. I took a sip of creamy chocolate, wis.h.i.+ng for some of Carolyn Hanes's whiskey right about now. Then I set my cup down and rubbed my hands together, missing the warmth already. This time, he scooted back an inch.

"I'm listening," he said.

He might be listening, but I knew in my gut he wouldn't believe me. He was right, though. We couldn't go on with all this tension between us if we were ever going to solve this case.

"All righty, then. Here goes." I took a deep breath. "That day in my house when you met my parents and drank my tea, I, um, sort of read your tea leaves after you left."

"Wait a minute." He held up his hand in a stop motion. "Not that I buy into any of this, but isn't that, like, an ethics issue? Don't you need my permission or something?" He took a sip of his coffee, looking as though he were contemplating the situation. Knowing him, he was probably trying to see if he had enough grounds to press charges.

"Gee, I don't remember you asking me for my permission when you called my parents and checked me out. Consider this my way of checking you out."

"It's not the same. You invaded my privacy." He glared at me.

"Ha! Trust me, talking to my parents is sooo invading my privacy." I glared right back.

"Whatever. This is getting us nowhere. Let's call it a draw." He swiped his hand through the air, and then we both grew silent. After several more tension-filled minutes, he stared down into the depths of his cup, not meeting my eyes as he finally asked in a quiet, curious voice, "So what'd you see, anyway?"

I chewed my lip, feeling ridiculous over what I had to say. Especially given the fact that all we did was argue. "Fine, but remember, you asked. When I read your tea leaves, I thought I was seeing into your past. You know . . . your relations.h.i.+p with your ex-girlfriend."

Mitch's jaw bulged, and he stared me down. I could tell his teeth were clenched, but all he said was, "Go on."

"You were arguing about something. Big surprise there." I couldn't help but get that little jab in.

He smirked, and I fluttered my lashes. I was the one to look away first.

"Then you kissed her. I've never seen-or felt-so much pa.s.sion." I peeked up at him.

His eyes flashed with an expression of pain and sorrow but only for a second.

"And love," I added.

His eyes narrowed slightly, looking a little disbelieving and confused.

"And finally heartache," I finished.

"The heartache I buy. What I don't get is why that vision disturbed you so much. Why do you care about my love life?"

"Because my vision wasn't of your past like I first thought. I read your future by mistake." My eyes locked onto his and held. "And the woman was me."

His eyelids sprang wide-open, and his mouth parted slightly. He couldn't seem to look away from my lips. "You?" his deep voice rumbled in shock.

"Now do you see why I'm so disturbed and full of tension around you?" I wrapped his blanket more securely around my shoulders, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

I should have known his "true" self would put me at ease soon enough, though. He doubled over, laughing harder than I'd ever seen him. He'd stop, look at me, and then start laughing all over again. This went on for a good ten minutes until I'd had enough.

"If you're done now, I'll be going. I've got a salon to visit tomorrow and a date with a real man." I stood up.

That stopped his laughter. He climbed to his feet as well. "Sean O'Malley is not a real man. He's a boy toy."

"Gee, why should my love life disturb you?"

He held up his hands. "Hey, whatever pixies your dust, Tink."

I folded the detective's blanket, put it back in the ottoman, and headed toward the door without another word. Why did I let the big oaf get to me?

"There is one way to prove your little vision wrong, you know," his deep voiced rumbled from right behind my ear, and I nearly flew out of my skin.

"Yeah, what's that?" I asked, slipping my shoes back on and still not facing him. I didn't dare.

"This," he answered, spun me around, and then swooped down to kiss me hard on the lips.

My eyes widened, then crossed, then slowly fluttered closed. His lips were so firm and warm and tingly. He started to pull back, but I stood on his feet and wrapped my arms around his neck, plastering my body to his. He hesitated a second and then deepened his kiss.

Blazing heat shot through my veins. Chocolate mixed with coffee made the most delicious mocha taste fill my senses. He plunged a hand into my hair, cradling the back of my head, and pulled me even closer with his other arm wrapped tight around me. He'd obliterated the chill from my body until every cell poured out steam.

I was on fire!

Suddenly, he tore his mouth from mine and stared at me in shock and horror. He stepped back and reb.u.t.toned the front of his s.h.i.+rt that I had somehow undone halfway, then cleared his throat. He couldn't quite meet my eyes as he said, "See? My point is proven. I felt nothing."

Liar! my mind screamed, and I gaped at him. I inhaled a shaky breath and tugged my torn hoodie down over my tank to cover my bra, which had miraculously undone itself as well. "Me too. Absolutely nothing. See you tomorrow, partner."

"Boss."

"Whatever."

I grabbed my keys, slipped outside, and welcomed the relief of the icy evening air as only one thought matched the pounding in my head: Much ado about nothing just took on a whole new meaning.

After a sleepless night and a failed (alcohol-laden) attempt to obliterate the touch and taste of one hot, yummy, annoying b.u.t.thead of a detective, I had a serious case of cotton mouth and a nasty headache.

Nothing, my big ole behind!

All I knew was, d.a.m.n the detective for making me acutely aware he had a whole lot more than grumpiness in his pants. And d.a.m.n him for proving my vision right. I didn't need heartache right now, and I certainly couldn't afford the distraction.

He hadn't helped the tension one bit. If anything, he'd made our situation a whole lot worse. This was ridiculous. We were adults. We would simply have to choose to control ourselves and focus on solving this case.

Someone pounded on my door, and I winced, grabbing my head. "Coming," I said in a voice that wasn't very loud but was all I could manage under the circ.u.mstances. I peered through the peephole and saw Jo, looking fabulous as always. I opened the door with a wince.

"Hey, you, are you ready to go?" She flipped her burgundy hair back and scanned my body. "Scratch that, you are beyond ready. We need to leave, p.r.o.nto."

Allowing her to lead me to her car, we got in and she drove past Gretta's Mini-Mart and two blocks down to Pump up the Volume Hair Salon and Spa. We walked inside and the room oozed comfort and cla.s.s. Overstuffed chairs to sit on, cuc.u.mber or lemon water to sip, the latest magazines to read, soothing sounds of nature to relax to, and therapeutic smells to boggle the senses. I had to admit I was beginning to understand the appeal.

Everyone recognized Jo immediately, which didn't surprise me. She had cla.s.s and style coming out her ears.

Me . . . not so much.

"Tracy," Jo said to the owner. "We're gonna need the whole enchilada for this one."

"No worries, I've got the perfect package."

A while later after having my ultra-pale blond hair low-lighted with golden blond streaks, Tracy placed me under the heating lamp and set the timer. Then she dragged Jo off to have her own burgundy highlights touched up. I picked up a magazine and pretended to read while I listened to the conversations around me.

A few ladies from the Historical Society-the loudest wore an ultra-modern, gaudy, leopard-print scarf I'd not soon forget-were complaining about some bigwig new guy in town who'd been trying to close down the library and open a chain bookstore. They were speculating that maybe he had killed Amanda Robbins because she was his biggest adversary when she was alive.

Note to self: check out bigwig and avoid store where Scarf Lady shops.

They paid and left while a group of freshly dyed women who called themselves the Bunco Babes took their place under the dryers. They started chatting on and on about their recent escapades and the latest gossip circulating around town.

Nurse Doolittle walked in and stopped to chat with them. She thanked one of them for helping her carry the doctor's dry cleaning into his house the week before. My mind raced. That meant she must have had a key, and what day had this happened? I leaned closer as the shampoo lady took her in the back to wash her hair.

I jumped at the chance to speak to the other women while Nurse Doolittle was out of earshot. "Hi, I'm Sunny," I said to the one who was sitting closest to me.

"Well, hi there. I'm Lulubelle, but everyone calls me Belle. I've heard about you." She wagged her brows. "I can't wait until you reopen your sanctuary. I don't care what those busybody old church ladies say about you being heathen and all. I don't believe a word of it. Why, you look too cute to be a devil-wors.h.i.+pping murderer."

"Thanks, I think." Good Lord, being psychic did not make me a devil wors.h.i.+pper, and since when had I closed down my fortune-telling business? I'd have to set the record straight, but right now Belle was on a roll, and I didn't want to distract her.

"I'm living on the wild side today. Went from a blonde to a brunette and even cut my bangs. Maybe this will finally make Big Don down at Don's Auto wake up and notice me." Belle was a large woman with equally large hair and cherubic cheeks. "I mean, I can't afford to keep having bodywork done on my car, but I do have another body he can tackle anytime he wants." She winked.

"I'm sure he'll love it," I replied. "I mean, your new look. Speaking of men, I overheard you talking to Tina Doolittle. If Miss Doolittle is a nurse, how come she was picking up the doctor's dry cleaning?" I prodded, hoping to get the conversation back on track.

Belle leaned in close and whispered, though why she bothered, I had no clue. Her whisper was loud enough to wake the people in the next county. "I asked her the same thing. She said she was being nice on account of the bad mood the doc was in after his fight with Amanda Robbins that morning. He swore revenge and then took off, leaving his waiting room full of angry patients. She took his spare key from the office, picked up his dry cleaning, and dropped it off. Only, it don't take that long to drop off a load of clothes. I can't imagine what that woman was doing in there all that time." Her laugh was bawdy and raucous, drawing several eyes in our direction.

I flushed self-consciously and leaned in to meet her halfway, lowering my voice so only she could hear. "Oh my, you mean the doctor is her Big Don?"