He pulled a hand over his face. "Sorry. I'm a little stressed."
I knew how he felt, but I wasn't about to offer any sympathy.
"What's this about, Nina?"
"The panty thief," I mumbled.
Again his gaze went to the bag. "You got those red lace bikinis of yours in there?" he asked, his eyes hooded. "I've missed them."
I gritted my teeth, trying to muster up some anger, instead of the heated desire taking over. Ginger Barlow, I kept repeating to myself.
Ignoring him was the best way to keep my sanity—and my vow never to sleep with him ever, ever again. I set the bag down, took out the glasses.
It took me fifteen minutes to explain about the panty thief, the neighborhood watch, Flash, Mr. Weatherbee, and the Colonel.
I finished up with, "I have no proof at all. It's all gut instinct."
He looked at the glasses, then slowly glanced up at me, all sorts of innuendo in his eyes. "Sometimes instinct is the best gauge."
Now, what in the hell did that mean? Was he trying to tell me something? Was I supposed to have ESP?
All I knew was that he was looking at me the same way I looked at . . . well, cookie dough.
Danger! Danger!
I jumped to my feet. "Well, thanks," I said, beating a hasty retreat. "I appreciate your help." My hand settled on the doorknob.
"Whoa," he said. His chair creaked as he stood.
I didn't turn around. Didn't dare. I felt his breath stir the hairs on the back of my neck as he stepped up behind me. A shiver shot down my spine.
"What," he whispered, "would you say—hypothetically—to a man who thinks he made a huge mistake. That he gave up something he needs desperately?" Oh good God.
I swallowed hard. "I wouldn't know what to say." I squirmed. Tugging on the door, I said, "I really have to go." He put his hand out, kept the door from budging. "Wait. We haven't discussed payment."
"Payment?" I squeaked.
He turned me around, nudged up my chin so I had to look him in the eye. I kept my hand on the doorknob.
"You know," he said. "One favor for another? I'm sure Ana filled you in on how that works."
"Uh-huh?" I said weakly. My hand was cramping, I held onto the door so tightly behind my back. It was my lifeline.
"Actually," he looked over his shoulder, "it's one, two, three favors."
My gaze flicked from his eyes to his lips and back again. Dear God, he was one sexy man. It would be so easy to let go of the door, fling my arms around his neck, and let him do what he pleased. Which happened to be what pleased me. Ack! Mistake, he had said.
Ugh. Could I forgive him? Let him come back? I just didn't know.
I held onto the door even tighter. "A case might be solved using those prints."
"That's one," he said, leaning in, his lips this close to mine. "What about two and three?"
I wet my lips, stared at his. Oh boy.
Warning bells blared in my head. My hand began to shake from the cramps.
"Well?" he said, leaning in.
Twisting the doorknob, I ducked under his arms. "Number two is Ginger, and number three is Barlow," I said in a shaky voice I wished sounded firmer.
I dashed out the door, my cheeks flaming, my heart pounding, and my libido begging me to Turn Around. Now. I kept going, but I distinctly felt Kevin's eyes following me. Following me as if he somehow knew I was wearing those little red bikinis today.
Kit's garage door was open when I pulled into his driveway. His bright look-at-me yellow Hummer was parked on the left half, Daisy's sleek red Jaguar was on the right. I put my truck into park, wiped the doggy drool off my arm with the hem of my shirt. "You ready?" I said to the horse of a dog next to me.
I'd been calling her Black Beauty, BeBe for short, even though she wasn't black, wasn't a beauty, and of course, was a dog.
Her giant head had hung out the window most of the thirty-minute ride from Ian Phillips's farm in Lebanon to Kit's huge Tudor-style house in West Chester. The rest of the time she'd spent drooling on me.
I wrestled BeBe out of the car. Keeping tight hold of her leash, I led her up Kit's front walkway. All right. She led me. Semantics.
I pushed Kit's doorbell.
BeBe pranced around, nearly taking my arm from its socket.
The beautiful stained-glass door opened. Kit's eyes widened.
"Her name's BeBe," I said. "Here are her papers. Here's her leash." I rolled my shoulder once I was free of the leash. I was going to be sore tomorrow.
Kit was still staring at me.
I shrugged. "I figure scary deserves scary." I turned and walked down the walkway.
"Nina!"
I turned back. BeBe had settled at Kit's feet like she'd known him all her life. Her massive tail thumped happily against his legs. Anyone else, and they'd be swept off their feet with one swipe. They were obviously meant for each other. It did my heart good. "Yeah?" I said.
He smiled wide. All right, when he grinned I could understand why women went all gooey over him. "See ya tomorrow."
Tomorrow.
The Frye job. I wasn't looking forward to it. Not at all.
Twenty-three
"You had to do it," Ana said to me as we hid behind two giant Arello's menus.
"I know. It's just—you should have seen how pathetic she looked."
Once I'd gotten back from Kit's, I'd forced myself to tell Maria what I knew—up to a point. I'd told her about the car, and about Claire and Verona being sisters, but I'd kept my big fat mouth shut on Nate's phone calls. And the pictures. "Not as pathetic as you trying on those dresses."
"I was not pathetic," I whispered, peering over my menu. Aunt Rosa sat at the bar with her back to us. "Hunk o' burning love" had yet to show.
Dress shopping hadn't gone so well. Not well at all. Seemed all that was left on the racks were the prom rejects. Rejects that made my dress look positively lovely. Shopping also hadn't taken my mind off my troubles, like I'd hoped it would. My mind kept skipping back to Nate's phone calls . . . and Maria.
"I'm doing the right thing, right?" I asked Ana.
She sipped a gigantic Cosmopolitan. "About not getting any of those dresses? Definitely. And you look really good as a redhead."
I fluffed my wig. Ana had brought them with her so we could go fully incognito. Personally, I thought that the wigs made us stand out even more since they were so obviously fake.
"About Maria. Not telling her about those phone calls? Would you want to know?"
With the little information I'd given her, Maria dove into her Louis Vuitton handbag and came up with two Dramamines. She was out like a light, and with the way she was snoring, there would be a ticket for disturbing the peace on my door when I got home. Ana didn't even think about it. "No."
Me either. Which was why I wasn't telling Maria. It would only add to her stress. Telling her wouldn't help Nate, and it would only make her worry more. Still, I felt a little bit like I did when she told me she'd broken up with Derrick Brandt. Guilty. Because I'd known all along that he was gay.
And maybe, just maybe, I could have saved her some of that pain.
Or maybe, my inner voice said, she needed to live her own life, one that I needed to stay out of.
I doused that voice with a generous sip of white wine and let myself wallow.
Sighing, I looked over the edge of the booth toward the bar. Aunt Rosa was twirling the little pink umbrella that came in her frothy drink. Still no sign of "Hunk o'." Ana swung her phony long blonde curls, propped her elbow up on the table, and dropped her head into her hand. "Did you ever call Hubba Hubba MacKenna back?"
"No," I said, taking a sip of my drink. I needed fortification. There was no way I could get through a conversation about Robert MacKenna without it.
"He likes you."
"He's married."
"So are you."
"Don't remind me."
"Maybe he's getting a divorce too?" Ana said, draining the rest of her Cos
mo.
My eyebrows dipped. "You think?"
"Why not?"
I'd never thought of that as a possibility. If he was separated, he was fair game. However, did I really want to get involved with someone who was separated? That was just screaming Heartache.
Whoa. I was separated. Did I want men running from me? That would be a big NO. The only man I wanted running from me was Kevin, and it seemed he kept inching closer, like a worm. I asked Ana about that.
"Guilt," she said. "He's regretting losing you. Probably wants you back."
Again I thought of Kevin's hypothetical. If a man had made a mistake . . .
One hell of a mistake.
Ana's jaw dropped. "You wouldn't, would you?"
"What?"
"Take him back?"
I shrugged and looked away.
"Nina!"
"I don't know. I don't think so."
"Oy," Ana said.
"Oh my God," I gasped, ducking under my menu.
"What?" Ana said, looking around. "Oh my God!" she screeched, ducking under her menu. I elbowed her. "Shhh!"
My mother stood near the hostess desk, looking around. Ana reached for her silverware, grabbed the knife. Sat on it.
I did the same.
Fortunately, my aunt Rosa had spotted my mother too. She spun so fast on her stool, she nearly toppled off. "What should we do?" Ana whispered. "Call 911?"
Ana reached for her cell. Before she could punch in any numbers, though, my mother zeroed in on us. We slunk lower, but she barreled down on us like a category 5 hurricane. One thin blonde eyebrow arched as she stood poised over our table. "What are those things on your heads?" she asked. Before we could answer, she held up a perfectly manicured hand, her white tips smooth and gleaming. "No, don't tell me. I don't care."
Ana and I shared a look. What was this about? "What're you doing here, Mom?"
"Looking for you, of course."
Of course. Like I came here all the time.
"Riley told me where to find you."
Grrr.
My mother motioned for me to scoot in.
"Yow!" I cried.
Heads turned. I pulled the knife out from under me. Thankfully, it wasn't a steak knife.
Ana laughed.
I gave her the Ceceri evil eye. It didn't affect her in the least.
Again my mother arched an eyebrow, but she didn't say anything. Something important had to be weighing on her mind if she had nothing to say about me sitting on cutlery. She flagged down a waiter. "Bourbon. On the rocks." He turned to walk away. "Make it a double." Oh boy.
"Nate," she said, giving Ana and me her full attention. "I heard on the news he was missing! Is this true? Is it? Is it?" I pushed the rest of my wine over to her before she burst a blood vessel. I told her what I'd told Maria. My mother had notoriously loose lips. I didn't trust her with the full story.
She leaned back, fanned herself. "He must be found. The wedding is in less than a week. A week."
"Yeah, that's what we're worried about," Ana said. My mother arched both eyebrows.
Before a catfight broke out, I said, "Maybe we should focus on Maria right now."
"Yes, we must talk to Maria. We've got to talk to the florist and the caterer and the wedding planner and the baker, and—"
"Mom."
"What?" she said. "Oh," she snapped her fingers, "and Uncle Giuseppe and Aunt Rosetta are flying in tomorrow, can you pick them up?" she asked me. "I've got a job tomorrow."
Her gaze slid to Ana, who tossed back a blonde curl. Mom opened her mouth, snapped it closed again. She turned back to me. "I," she thumped her ample chest, lowered her lashes, "need your help, Nina. Your ma-ma. Please don't disappoint me." Ana snorted.
I sighed. "I really don't have the time," I said.
"Chérie . . ." she began.
I tuned out her guilt trip. My gaze wandered over her shoulder. I gasped and grabbed Ana's arm, motioning. Ana's eyes went wide. "Ohhh noooo."
My mother stopped mid-guilt trip. "What?"
Ana cleared her throat. "Nothing. I'm just sympathizing."
"Well, yes. As I was saying . . ."
Behind my mother's head, my father was scanning the restaurant. He obviously didn't recognize us in our hootchie mama getups.
Ana and I watched in horror as Aunt Rosa rushed over to him. She motioned toward us, and my dad's bulldog eyes went all round and wide. He was Hunk o' Burning Love? I made the international shooing sign with my hands. "What are you doing, chérie?"
I breathed a sigh of relief when my father and Aunt Rosa ducked out the door.
"Nina?"
"Me?" I said, folding my hands into fists. "Nothing."
"Filing," Ana piped in. "Her nails." My mother's eyes lit. "I'll do that!"
Before I could protest, my mother had my hands held hostage. She'd been trying to get me to have a manicure for years now and probably saw this as her only change to rid me of my ragged cuticles. As she pulled a file out of her purse, my cell phone rang. She pouted as I tugged my hands free and checked the phone's readout: Home. "Hello?"
"Nina?"
"Kevin? What're you doing at my house?"
His long sigh echoed across the line. "You need to come home. There's been a break-in."
Red and blue lights bathed my house. Two patrol cars were parked diagonally at the sidewalk and Kevin's 4Runner was in my driveway. I pulled in behind it, and Ana and my mother jumped out before I could even get my truck into park.
Kevin had been waiting on the front porch talking with one of the uniformed officers when we pulled in. He came to the top of the steps when he spotted us.
My mother teetered on the flagstone path in her stilettos. "Where's Maria?" she cried. "My baby! Mar-eee-ahh! Bé-bé!"
Kevin said, "She's inside on the couch. Resting. She's a little dazed."
Ana gasped. "Did the intruder hurt her?"
Kevin shook his head. "No. She's still a little woozy from her, uh, sleep aid."
My cheeks heated, and I was glad I could blame the color on the strobe lights. "What happened?" I asked after my mother and Ana rushed inside. "Nice hair," he said with a sly smile. Ack! I whipped the wig off.
"Something I should know about?" he asked.
"Ana . . ."
"Enough said."
"What happened here?" I repeated. "Is Riley okay?"
"Maria said he's at a friend's house, left a few hours ago. Do you know which one?"
I had a pretty good idea. "Katie."
"Katie?" Kevin asked.
I quickly explained that whole situation. Kevin smiled smugly when I got to the part about Riley and Katie in the gazebo. I fully expected a "That's my boy" to come out of his lips any second now. I cut it off at the pass. "What happened here?" I asked again. "Is Maria really okay?"
He motioned to the porch swing. The uniformed officer disappeared into the house. "She's fine. Though I highly recommend she never takes two Dramamines ever again." Through the thin walls I could hear Maria saying, "Poop on, poop on." I shot a look at Kevin. "What's she talking about?" Gracie was still at the vet—or I'd have assumed the worst. "And what are you doing here?" Kevin chuckled. "What?"
"The security company called the department after someone tripped the alarm here because apparently when they called the house, a semiconscious woman kept saying, 'Poop on, poop on.' "
I dreaded going inside. What in the world was I going to find?
"The 911 operator recognized it as my address and let me know what was going on."
I didn't correct him that it was his former address. Although I wanted to.
"I was second on the scene, and came in to find Officer Frennell trying to coax Maria off of your neighbor, Mrs. Mustard. She was saying 'poupon.' As in Grey Poupon. The mustard."
I gasped. "Is Mrs. Mustard all right?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"Those fingerprints you asked me to run . . . as a favor?"
My cheeks heated a
gain at the memory of favors. "Yes."
"Turns out Jake Jones has an outstanding warrant out for his arrest in Oklahoma."
"Jake Jones?"
"Aka Jacob Mustard."
"What!?" I said, shocked. Straight-laced Colonel? A fake name? An arrest warrant?
"Peeping Tom. He skipped bail."
My jaw dropped.
"But that's not all," he said, just like a perky talk show host.
I didn't think I could take any more. I could still hear Maria whining about Poupon. I was tempted to give her another Dramamine to knock her out for the night. "He's never been in the military, and he's not married. Margaret Mustard, aka Margaret Jones, is his sister, or as we're now calling her, his accomplice. He's skipped town again, and she's not talking."
Sweet Mrs. Mustard?
"She was breaking in here to find that glass from this afternoon. She'd apparently figured out what you were up to." I remembered Mrs. Mustard trying to wrestle that glass from me. I couldn't believe her sweetness and light act fooled me!
Trouble In Spades Page 19
