by Lois Greiman
“I think he may be a prince.”
“Like ‘He’s a real prince’ or—”
“A Saudi prince.”
“And he works as a prop master for Amazon Queen?”
“I believe there are a couple thousand extra princes left in his homeland to take care of any royal duties.”
“Really? How many are single?”
“Can we wrap this up?” Rivera asked.
I glanced at him and almost resisted grinning before a thought struck me. “How many times did he propose to you?” I asked.
Laney never hesitated. “Just twice.”
He wasn’t very serious, then. I had known men who would beg every single Sunday for most of a decade. “Does he hold out any hope?”
“I sent him a wedding invitation,” she said.
“Some guys aren’t easily discouraged.” At least where Laney was involved.
“I think his other wives will console him.”
“You wouldn’t be his numero uno?”
“Not even his numero dos.”
“So you’d be like … dessert?”
“Baklava.”
Rivera muttered a curse. I almost laughed.
“I’ve got to go,” I said.
“Mac?”
“Yeah?”
“If you’re dead for my wedding I’ll never forgive you, and I’m a very forgiving person.”
“You are.”
“Don’t be dead.”
I smiled. “This is the first time in my life I’ve got a bridesmaid dress that doesn’t make me want to poke myself in the eye with a fork.”
“We did well on that, didn’t we?”
“It was a steal.”
“And perfect for you.”
“I do look kind of great in it.”
“Like a mermaid princess.”
“I was thinking of getting those sandals with the amber stones on the instep. What do you—”
“Remember anything about an abused Yemeni girl?” Rivera asked, and I felt a little guilty.
“Hey, Laney, when you spoke to Ghazi, did you mention my name?”
“No names. I just said Aalia was a friend of a friend.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Hey,” she said before I could hang up. “Arrive home alive tonight and I’ll treat you to ice cream.”
“Mocha Moose?”
“Your choice.”
“Can I get extra caramel?”
“We’ll buy an economy-sized jar.”
“And we won’t have to drink a green hair-slop chaser?”
“I don’t drink green hair slop.”
“Well, whatever that stuff is that’s supposed to make hair all glorious.”
“I don’t care if all your hair falls out.”
“I love you,” I said, and hung up.
Rivera was staring at me as we walked.
“What?” I said, but he just shook his head.
“Where are we going?”
“To pick up a friend of a friend,” I said.
“The wife of an abusive Yemeni oilman with ties to our government?”
“Yeah.”
“All right,” he said, then gripped my arm, forcing me to a halt. “But you’re staying here.”
“Really?” I loved the idea. It may have been the best idea I’d ever heard in my entire life. But the fact that it was a direct order from Rivera made my back go up like a pit bull’s hairy spine. “You bring your cuffs again, Rivera?”
A man glanced our way, but kept walking. I resisted flipping him off. The entire male population was not responsible for the fact that Rivera had once handcuffed me to his father’s kitchen cupboard. Probably.
“Maybe Elaine’s wrong,” he said. “Maybe she let your name slip. Maybe this bastard knows more about you than I do.”
I glanced at the hand that gripped my arm with mind-imploding arrogance. “That wouldn’t take much.”
“Yeah? I know you’re wearing leopard print underwear.”
“I …” I screwed up my face at him, but truth to tell, I was kind of impressed. My skirt was high-waisted. “How did you know that?”
“I’m a cop,” he said. “And you’re staying here.”
“The hell I am.”
He drew a careful breath as if that would keep planet Earth from tumbling into chaos. “I’m asking you to stay here.”
“And I’m telling you no.”
He ground his teeth. Pretty soon he was going to be edentate. Which would make him decidedly less sexy. Damnit! Why do I find irritating men sexy? “Maybe you don’t realize how dangerous these domestic cases are, McMullen.”
“I’m a licensed psychologist.”
He canted his head. “Was that a psychologist or a psychotic?”
“Huh!” I chortled, then yanked my arm out of his grasp, turned away, and marched through the airport like a storm trooper.
I heard Rivera swear again, then, “Damnit, McMullen, why can’t you be just a little bit—”
“If domestic cases are as dangerous as you say—you being the lauded police lieutenant—then we don’t have much time to waste.”
“You don’t even know if she’s really here.”
“Good thing I have eyes.”
“You going to wave a sign? ‘Abused Wife of Asshole Oilman, Over Here’?”
“I think the burka might give her away,” I said, but when we reached the baggage claim there wasn’t a respectable face veil in sight. Just your average mix of bad taste.
There was a baker’s dozen of white folk as pale as myself, all dressed as if they were going slumming; a trio of black women heatedly discussing something obviously near and dear to their hearts, and an olive-skinned boy with low-slung jeans bobbing to the beat of the iPod plugged into his ears. His baseball cap was frayed and said I NY.
“You sure this is the right place?” Rivera asked.
“She said United—” I stopped talking as two men in turbans turned left into the area. They were tall and lean, with hungry eyes and handsome hooked noses.
“Wow,” I said. I can’t help it, there’s something about those haughty Middle Eastern men that makes the animal in me want to take a bite out of their dark-meat flanks.
The taller of the two shifted his sexy dusk gaze toward me and my breath caught in my throat. He stood very straight, shoulders drawn back, somber mouth even.
“Looking to be wife number six?” Rivera asked, and I snapped myself back in line, silently reprimanding the lazy-ass feminist in me.
“Do you think they’re looking for her?” I asked, and turned my gaze casually away, but Rivera was still glaring at me.
“Are you looking for them?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, and skimmed the growing crowd.
“You look like a hyena in a herd of wildebeest.”
I gave up my perusal. “Maybe you could be jealous and insecure later,” I said, and he snorted.
The boy with the New York cap adjusted his backpack, then touched a finger to his iPod, and in that moment I noticed something odd. I scowled and turned toward Rivera, not wanting to seem conspicuous.
“Don’t they usually light up?”
“Would it be too much to ask you to make sense?”
“iPods,” I said, frustrated. Laney would have understood my question, and had an interesting TV-related anecdote seconds ago. “Don’t they light up when you touch them?”
“Do I look like Sean Diddy?”
“Just the attitude,” I said, and turned momentarily back to the boy. His eyes were large, dark, lipid, and gorgeous. His black hair was cut short. In a second he looked away and tugged his tattered baseball cap lower over his forehead. His backpack looked heavy and his wrist was bruised.
Our eyes met, and in that moment he lowered his arm, letting the sleeve of his jersey fall back in place, but it was already too late.
I had found Aalia. Unfortunately, there was no reason to believe the turbaned men
hadn’t done the same.
10
Red lace garters have their appeal, but naked’s pretty much a showstopper.
—Lieutenant Jack Rivera,
while perusing Chrissy’s
Victoria’s Secret
I sucked in a gasp and yanked my attention back to Rivera. “It’s her.”
“What are you talking about?” He was still scanning the crowd, but I touched his arm and laughed, at which time he glanced down as if I’d lost my last viable marble.
“Don’t look,” I said, but he lifted his head, and in that moment I did the only possible thing I could do. I kissed him, openmouthed and no-holds-barred.
One thing I’ll say for L.A. cops, they can rise to the occasion. I felt it happen against my thigh, in fact. Felt his tongue slip into my mouth. Felt my libido amp up like an old rocker’s subwoofers.
My hand was still on his arm when I pulled away. His eyes were smoky. His voice the same.
“Where?” he asked.
I almost said “backseat,” but I caught myself just in time and remembered the moment at hand. “Kid in the baseball cap,” I said.
He pushed the hair from my neck, caressing my skin with his fingertips. I shivered. It was probably just part of the act. “And the iPod?” he asked.
“I don’t think it’s turned on. Are the turbans still watching us?”
He pulled his attention from me, but his fingers remained on my neck. “Yes.”
“Maybe you can delay them while I speak to Aalia,” I said. She had turned away and was already leaving.
He kissed me again. There was a good deal of tongue. “Sometimes the mayor gets kind of pissed when we harass foreigners with friends in high places.”
“I’m not asking you to shoot them.”
“My mistake,” he said, and slipped his hand down my bare arm.
It was all for show. I knew that. But someone had failed to inform my endocrine system. I was starting to drool a little. His hand skimmed the ribs just below my breasts.
“This isn’t illegal, is it?” he asked.
I was breathing hard. “I’m of age.”
The corner of his mouth hitched up in that way that made my own go dry. “I meant getting involved with this girl. She’s legal, right? All documents cleared and everything? I’m not going to get my ass thrown in jail, am I?”
I shook my head, though I wasn’t really sure why. “I have other plans for your ass.”
“Promise?”
“You bet your ass,” I said.
“Figuring out jurisdiction here is hell,” he said, and kissed the corner of my mouth. “I might as well have left my badge at home.”
Which was about as likely as leaving his dick in the kitchen drawer.
“Do you think you can just distract them for a while?” I asked.
“Hell, I might even be able to offend them.”
“You?”
“Never know until you try. Get Aalia to the car. I’ll catch up to you later,” he said, and gave me a sizzling grin, up close and sexy, before he turned away.
I managed a nod, but he was already sauntering toward the men in turbans, narrow-hipped, loose-limbed, and smoking hot. “What are you looking at?” he asked. His voice was just loud enough to hear from my position. The tone was abrasive, arrogant, and as irritating as a toothache.
Perfect.
The two straightened even more, immediately affronted and entirely forgetting about me.
“You fucking camel jockeys,” Rivera said. “Don’t you have women where you come from?”
I heard one of them mutter a response.
“Yeah?” Rivera said. “Well, that one’s mine, so back the hell off.”
I almost fainted before remembering it was all an act. At which time I corralled my humping hormones and turned casually in the direction Aalia had taken. In a moment I was out of sight and speed-walking down the corridor, but she was nowhere to be seen. I broke into a trot, rounded a corner, skipped between suitcases and surfboards and little girls with pigtails, then came to a halt … glancing right and left down the row of luggage carousels. Still nothing. But then I saw her, heading away. She was wearing blue jeans and a red sweatshirt now, but she’d kept the cap.
Damn, she was good, I thought. Rushing toward her, I caught her arm.
“Aalia,” I murmured.
The man who turned toward me wore a Fu Manchu beard and aviator glasses.
“Damn, girl!” he said. “You scared the shit out of me.” I stepped back a pace, stammered an apology, and turned toward the crowds again, but if Aalia was amongst them I didn’t see her. Where, then? I zipped my attention back toward the carousels and caught a glimpse of restroom doors.
My breath caught in my throat. She was in there. I knew it. Probably had a change of clothes in her backpack and would come out looking like Halle Berry at the Oscars.
I rushed into the ladies’ room. A woman stood at the sink. She was stout, blond, possibly albino. Glancing under the doors I saw that only two stalls were occupied.
“Aalia?” I called.
No one answered, but she would be wise to be cautious, and judging by her disguise, I assumed she was not only wise, but clever. I bent to look under the first stall door and was just straightening when a woman stepped out. She was six feet tall and missing one of her premolars. Her hair was going gray, but muscle rippled across her shoulders and her hands were the size of catchers’ mitts. She could have bench-pressed a trailer if she had put her mind to it. Still, I studied her a moment, making sure she wasn’t a five-foot Yemeni beauty.
She wasn’t. I was sure of it when she glared at me.
“Sorry,” I said, and moved on. Pretending I had to pee, I scampered into a stall, closed the door, and bent double to look under the partitions. Three stalls over, there were a pair of sneakers peeking out from under blue jeans. Straightening abruptly, I waited for the vertigo to pass, then hurried out to tap on her door.
“Aalia.”
“Who is there?” The voice was small and uncertain. “I’m here to help you,” I said. “We don’t have much time.”
“Who are you?”
A handsome woman in a yellow suit entered the restroom, eyeing me like I was some underworld oddity.
“My name’s Christina. Your sister sent me.”
There was a pause. I gave the suited woman a smile to indicate I wasn’t about to murder her if she turned her back on me. She didn’t look like she was buying it, but it didn’t matter because just then the stall door clicked open and the occupant stepped out.
Her hair was red, short, and spiked into little meringuelike peaks at the top of her head. Her blouse seemed to be made of aluminum foil and her skin was just a shade lighter than the albino’s. Not an easy feat.
“Damnit,” I said, wondering where Aalia had gone.
The woman scowled. I seem to have that effect on people. “Why did my sister send you?” she asked.
“Sorry.” I was already hurrying away.
“Is she still living with that jerk, Jerry?” she called, but I didn’t have time to waste on explanations that might make me look like an idiot.
Instead, I skedaddled out the door and glanced to the right. The first thing I saw was the two men in turbans. They were looking at each other as they approached, deep in conversation, possibly discussing what assholes Americans are.
I only had a fraction of a second before they turned toward me. In that harrowing instant I scurried into the men’s room.
There’s something about the sight of urinals that always gives me pause. I mean, it’s not like I see them every day and when I do I’m momentarily distracted. But I quickly got back on the job, scanning the stalls. Three of them were occupied. One showed blue jeans under the door.
“Aalia,” I whispered, but the door of the restroom was already opening. I yanked my attention in that direction as Middle Eastern accents floated toward me, then jumped into the stall next to the blue jeans.
The two men entered the room. Still talking, they seemed to split up. I heard their shoes squeak as they opened stall doors to the right and left. Biting my lip, I dropped to my knees and gazed at the jeans in the next stall. They seemed to be about the right shade. Tennis shoes peeked out the bottom of the pants legs. Another stall door opened and closed. I had no choice.
Dunking down, I pushed my head under the partition.
The woman inside jerked her gaze toward me. She still wore the battered cap extolling her affection for New York. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted in fear. She jerked back a few scant inches, but made no sound as she stared at me. I put my finger to my lips, then shimmied under the partition. It was tight inside. I was careful not to hit my head on the toilet stool as I straightened.
The men were approaching from opposite ends of the room. A stall door squeaked open to my left. We jerked our gazes toward the noise in unison, both breathless as I grabbed her arms. She dragged her attention back to me and we waited. Three stalls to the right, another door opened. Her eyes were steady on mine, sharp with focus, bright with terror and intellect and hope. I pointed toward the floor. She stared a moment longer, then, without a word, dropped to her knees, where she remained, gazing up at me. I held up one hand, heart pounding. The door next to us was pushed open. The man’s footsteps came toward us. I pointed. Aalia rolled silently into the stall he’d just checked. At the same moment I stepped out, adjusting my skirt.
“I don’t like to use those nasty urinals,” I said, and sashayed to the row of sinks. An old man with a goatee hobbled in, looked at me, and backed out. It took all of my restraint to keep from searching for Aalia. Instead, I made a great show of lathering my hands.
The second Middle Eastern man reached the first. In the mirror, I watched them confer. My fingers were beginning to chaff, but finally, after glancing once more in my direction, they left.
I dried my hands with a paper towel, then tossed it in the nearly empty basket, just as Aalia slipped from hiding. Ramla was right. She was gorgeous. All smooth mocha skin and soft eyes.
Her wide gaze skittered to the door. “They will return,” she whispered.
My mind was bouncing like an overinflated balloon. What would a cocky man do to keep a woman like this? “You know them?”
She shook her head. “But my husband, he has many friends.”
“Do you think they recognized you?”
