The corner of his lip crept up ever so slightly, and he replied, “You were about to tell me your name before you got lost in my eyes.”
“I did not get lost in your eyes.”
“You were staring.”
“I wasn’t staring. I was just surprised,” I huffed. “And my name is MacDonald. Callie MacDonald.”
“As in ‘supersized’?”
“Well, aren’t you full of yourself?”
His brows formed a V. “I meant ‘supersized’ as in McDonald’s, the restaurant. Is your name spelled like that?”
“Oh.” Had I said this day was looking up? I wanted to hit the rewind button and not stop until I heard the sound of my alarm clock, so I could throw the useless thing out the window and stay in bed all day. “Um, it’s MacDonald, with an ‘a.’ Next question?” Darned Irish skin. He had to have seen me blush yet again.
He let it go, thank God. “No Mister in your life?” he asked, glancing at my bare ring finger.
Just because I didn’t have a ring on didn’t mean I wasn’t married. His assumption made me angry, even if it was true. “No. There is no Mister in my life, Detective.” And there probably never would be, after that awful video footage had been published on the Internet. It still stung that men only wanted me for one thing these days, and marriage wasn’t it. “I don’t see how that’s relevant to the investigation.” I slipped my right hand over my left.
He ran his thumb and forefinger over his goatee, but I saw his grin. I could tell he enjoyed making me squirm. “Not a problem at all, Ms. MacDonald with an ‘a.’ It’s simply a formality,” he paused, “for the record.”
“And we wouldn’t want to leave any holes in the record, now would we?”
“Not with my captain. He’s a stickler for details. How old are you?”
I blinked.
He grinned.
“Well, if you’re sure my age will help you catch the flasher, I wouldn’t dream of standing in the way of justice being served. I’m thirty.”
“Thirty?” His brows shot up.
“It’s the baby face. Everyone always thinks I’m younger. It used to drive me crazy, but now that I’m older, I’ll take it. Not that I’m old. I mean, thirty isn’t old. Is it? I can’t really tell anymore, because sometimes I feel ancient.” God, I hated it when I rambled. I tended to do that when I was flustered, and right about now I was ranking pretty high on the fluster scale.
“No, ma’am. Thirty’s not old.” His gaze ran over me with renewed interest, and I shivered as a tingle ran up my spine. The corner of his mouth twitched like he wanted to smile.
“Excuse me, the coffee’s ready.” I stood to my full height and strolled over to the pot, trying hard not to shake my butt. It probably looked like I had a pole stuck up my rear end, but I didn’t care. It was better than letting him see me jiggle. Poles didn’t jiggle. My fanny, on the other hand, did.
Big time.
I poured the coffee, thinking the ten pounds I’d put on since the scandal didn’t help, when the strangest sensation hit me. You know, that prickly feeling on the back of your neck you get when you can sense someone is staring at you? Well, that was it to a tee. The same feeling I’d had in tenth grade Biology every time I made the long walk from the back of the classroom to the chalkboard. Chuckie Turner would always say, Must be jelly cuz jam don’t shake like that.
I risked a peek over my shoulder. Dylan whipped his eyes up to mine with guilt shining bright. Guilt, and something more.
Darn it, I knew he was staring at my huge insecurity! Well, I sure as heck wasn’t in tenth grade anymore. If he made one smart-alec comment, I’d let him have it. He smiled at me kindly, looking like anything but a smart-alec. Not sure how I felt about that, I turned back around and finished making the coffee. When he cleared his throat, I frowned.
Note to self: Hot Britches likes jelly.
That made us even, because I couldn’t deny I liked big feet. Only big feet had brought me heartache. I couldn’t go through that again. Donning a neutral expression, I picked up the tray and returned, setting it on the table between us. “Cream or sugar?”
“Neither. Black as sin for me.”
“Hmmm,” was all I said.
He picked up his steaming mug and watched me over the rim. Taking a sip, he raised his cup in salute. “It’s good.”
“Thank you. Next question?”
“Thirty-five.”
“Excuse me?” I stared at him, my cup halting halfway to my lips.
“That’s my age. I thought it only fair you knew.”
“Wow, you look... your age.” Hello, Mouth. Meet Foot. He arched a brow, so I blurted, “But it’s a good look, really.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“You’re welcome.” You’re welcome? For what, you goof, insulting him? “It was a compliment, you know,” I added.
“Got it.” He looked at his notes. “All right, on with the investigation.”
Thank God.
He set his cup down, rubbed his hands together, and then picked up his notepad and pen again. “Tell me what happened from the beginning. And try to remember everything, even if you don’t think it’s important. You’d be surprised at how many minor details turn out to be the leads we need.”
I filled him in on everything that had happened from the moment I’d arrived at work. He remained passive, intent on listening and taking notes throughout my account. I knew he was just doing his job, but it felt really good having a man actually “listen” to what I was saying.
“Pretty gutsy lady.” He sat back and studied me.
“Thanks. I like to think so.”
“Not too smart putting yourself at risk like that, though.”
I frowned.
“But I have to say, I would’ve loved to have seen that one go down,” he continued. “The perp probably still wonders what the hell happened.”
“I’m sure he’s forgotten all about it by now.”
“I doubt it.” Dylan scanned his notes. “No surveillance camera, no secret alarm, only one employee working at a time. Your boss runs one hell of an operation.” He grunted.
“Well, now, that’s an understatement. Simpson’s an operator, all right.”
He made a note, then chewed his bottom lip, stroking his goatee. “So tell me. Why would a robber leave the goods behind when the coast was clear to escape?”
“Because he wasn’t a robber.”
“Why’d you do it?” Dylan asked quietly, staring at me with that something more I’d caught in his eyes when he’d checked out my insecurity.
I peered at him, and heat decided to take up residence in every cell throughout my body. “D-Do what?”
“Why’d you let me go free?” He stared me down.
I swallowed, wanting to shout, Because I have the hots for you, and I shouldn’t. Because something about you makes me feel safe, which is crazy. Because you’re a freaking zucchini, darn it. But I said, “Because I’m not a cop, and I was scared senseless when the pervert played pocket pool under his Trench coat. For all I knew, he had a gun in there somewhere. There was a lot going on under that coat, ya know.”
He blinked at me.
So I continued to ramble, repeating everything I’d already told him. Stupid nerves. “Then you show up with a gun. I thought you were his accomplice, but you didn’t have anything going on in your pants.” My gaze dropped to his groin. Good Lord, there I went again. I closed my eyes, “I mean, you certainly do have something in your pants, quite a lot in fact, but I... I... Oh, heck, I plead the fifth.”
He chuckled. “How exactly did you think I could help this pervert? Flashing is kind of a solitary act.”
Forget heat in my cells, a flipping fire had ignited, burning up my insides with his every word. “Okay, I get it. He didn’t need your help for that.” Heck, he barely had enough for his own hand. “And we both know he wasn’t here to rob me.”
“So what do you think he was here to do?”
�
�He wore a Trench coat with no pants on. Now, I know the city’s a little different than where I come from, but even I could tell he’s a warthog who gets his jollies by flashing women.”
“Warthog?” Hot Britches’ lips twitched again. I must have amused the heck out of him.
“You know what I mean.” I looked away and then smoothed my non-designer jeans and tugged at my secondhand sweater.
“You’ve got the ‘warthog’ part right, but flashing is only the beginning of what he wanted to do to you.” The Detective leaned forward and looked me in the eye. “The perp came to molest you.”
“M-Molest me?” I squeaked, then cleared my voice, striving for calm. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating. He was half my size, for crying out loud.”
“Size doesn’t matter, Ms. MacDonald.”
Hey, wait a minute. I knew he wasn’t talking about winkie size, but a door had just opened for me to question him about my project. I wasn’t about to let the opportunity pass. “Hang on a sec.” My heart still raced, but I took a deep breath and ran over to the desk to grab my own pen and paper. “Size doesn’t matter,” I said, writing the words on my notepad, then I looked up at him. “Doesn’t matter to whom, you or the woman?”
He blinked at me. “Excuse me?”
“Just curious.”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter to anyone, in this case. Just because the perp is small doesn’t mean he isn’t strong. Or packin’, as we cops call it.” Dylan smiled wide.
“Oh, he wasn’t packin’. Trust me.” The only thing he had in there was the smallest pickle I’d ever seen. Smaller than a gherkin, for Pete’s sake. I sighed and put my notebook down, hearing the door of opportunity slam shut. I was tired of answering his questions, but he was making it impossible for me to conduct my own interview.
“Where have you been the past week? Haven’t you seen the news? You do watch the news, don’t you?” he asked.
“Of course I do,” I lied. The fire burning up my insides had died down, but the lingering embers managed to paint my cheeks once again. “I’ve just been too busy lately.”
“Ahhh, so you haven’t heard of the Midnight Molester, then.”
I felt my eyes go round, and my lips part. “Midnight Molester? I suspected Flasher Freak was a little perverted, but come on. How dangerous can he be?”
Dylan barked out a laugh. “Sorry, can’t help it. Flasher Freak?”
I shrugged.
He didn’t bother to fight his grin anymore. He looked like he hadn’t had this much fun in a long time, but he must have realized he wasn’t supposed to be having fun, because the grin vanished. “The Midnight Molester may be small, but he’s still a man. A man with a very sick and twisted mind who preys on young women around midnight.”
“Young women at midnight, huh? Guess he wanted more than a little pocket pool.”
“Pocket pool?” The Detective lost the battle once again, laughing harder this time, then he ran his hand over his mouth. “I haven’t heard that expression in a while, but yeah, you could say that.”
“Wow.” I took a shaky breath, feeling slightly less calm, cool and collected.
That killed his smile in an instant. “The last thing I want to do is scare you, but you need to know the situation is serious. You’re one lucky lady, Ms. MacDonald. You must have really surprised him to have manipulated him out the door so easily. You don’t want to know what that sicko did to his other victims.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
His brow puckered. “You really shouldn’t work here anymore, ma’am. Let me call your boss, and I’ll give you a ride home.” He slipped on his gloves and grabbed the bag, then stood and took me by the elbow to draw me to my unsteady feet.
“What are you talking about? I have to cover this shift until morning.” I looked up at him, feeling dazed.
“Let your boss worry about that. It’s too dangerous for someone like you.”
“Whoa there, chief, back up. What’s wrong with me?”
“Look. You’re an irresistible invitation to all the scum of this city. They’re just waiting to take advantage of someone like you. Find a better job on a safer street.” He steered me all the way to the door.
I came out of my stupor. “Listen, Detective Cabrizzi, I’m a big girl. I can handle myself and anything this city has to throw at me.”
“You may think you can, but the chances of you getting lucky again are slim to none.” He gave me a no-nonsense look and then opened the door.
I dug in my heels, not an easy thing to do with rubber-soled Snow Flurry boots. “My coat. I’ll be cold.”
He glanced over his shoulder and stared at my neck and chest. His eyes dropped lower, and his breathing grew faster. Oh, yeah, men are all the same. But didn’t my nipples harden in response? Darn traitors.
“May I get my coat, Detective?”
He looked up, and I quirked a brow then stared him down with steel in my eyes.
He cleared his throat. “Sorry. I’ll just wait out here, but make it quick, Ms. MacDonald. I’ve had a hell of a day.”
He’d had a bad day? Bet he didn’t have Trench coat wearing weirdos flashing their pickles at him. When he turned around and told Peterson he could take off, I closed the door.
Click!
I saw Dylan stiffen before he swiveled around with clenched jaw. Too late, pal. I waved to him from the other side of the locked door, plastering a brilliant smile across my face. No way would I let any man tell me what to do, ever again.
“C’mon, Ms. MacDonald. Open up, and I’ll drive you home. It isn’t safe here.”
“Not a chance, Detective. Last time I checked, I was perfectly capable of making my own decisions.”
“You’re serious? You’re going to stay after everything that’s happened?”
“Look, Flasher Freak’s long gone, and I need the hours. I told you, I’m not quitting.”
“Fine, have it your way, ma’am.” He glared. “But I’m not about to leave you here alone.”
“Suit yourself.”
He strolled around his car and climbed inside, appearing to settle in for the night, looking anything but pleased. It wasn’t my fault. I hadn’t asked him to stay, but I had to admit it felt kind of nice having my zucchini watch over me, even if he was only doing his job. At least I could pretend that someone cared.
It made me feel like I wasn’t alone for a change.
***
“Shut up,” I mumbled, slapping the horrendous screeching torture device beside me the next evening. The incessant buzzing ceased, and the alarm clock fell off the end table by my lumpy, pullout bed.
I shouldn’t be complaining. Gloria barely knew me, yet she’d offered to let me stay with her. Queens was a heck of a lot cheaper than the city, yet close by, and I’d heard it had charm. Too late, I’d discovered that Gloria didn’t live anywhere near the charm. She lived in a section of town even the roaches avoided, and the loud, rumbling subway ran all night long. Sleep deprivation was not a fun experience.
As I rolled to a sitting position, I rubbed my eyes with my fists and yawned. Friday, thank God. Working the graveyard shift and attending class in the morning was hard enough. But cramming in homework in the afternoon until I passed out for five hours each evening before starting all over again was killing me.
I padded on bare feet past Gloria’s bedroom into the tiny bathroom and then cranked the shower on hot, listening to the pipes moan and rumble. As the bathroom filled with steam, I turned on Gloria’s boom box and pressed play. Salsa music poured out of the speakers, and I smiled. My new obsession. Shedding my cotton T-shirt and panties, I stepped into the shower and shook my big ole insecurity to the beat, feeling a whole lot better.
Until a pair of blue eyes flashed in my mind. The same eyes that had haunted my sleep, what little sleep I’d had. Eyes that belonged to one Mr. Way-Too-Dangerous-To-Be-Around. That didn’t stop me from wanting him, but I wasn’t ready to get involved with any man.
/> I’d given up hope that decent men even existed, so what was the point? Then why couldn’t I stop thinking about him? Because I needed him for my project, that was all, I rationalized. He was far too confident for his own good and more handsome than a man had a right to be, I conceded. At least I’d gained some valuable information.
Note to self: Men with large winkies have swelled egos.
One thing was clear. He was too darn used to getting his own way. Until last night. Score one for me. I grinned. Most women probably fell at his feet, swooning over his every word and drooling over those incredible eyes of his. I wilted against the shower wall and then jerked my back ramrod straight.
“Ha! I’m no swooner. I may drool a bit, but swooning you will never see, Detective.”
My mind knew I had to steer clear of men, but my body sure as heck wasn’t listening. I plunged my head under the pelting spray of water and tried to shake off my frustration, but it insisted on sticking around. Probably because his image insisted on sticking around, frustrating me in a different way, I admitted.
“Get over it, Cal. There isn’t a darn thing you can do about it.” I shut off the pipes and snatched my towel.
“Cal? Who are you talking to?”
Gloria? What was she doing home? “Uh, no one.” I reached out a hand and flicked off the boom box. “Hey, shouldn’t you be at work? I was just getting ready to relieve you.”
“Don’t bother. We don’t have a job to go to.”
“Hold that thought. I’ll be right out.” I got dressed and joined Gloria in the kitchen fifteen minutes later. “What do you mean? What happened?” I sat down in the creaky chair, facing her.
She opened a bottle of Tequila, downed a shot, and then fixed herself a margarita before answering. “This short, bald health inspector guy comes marchin’ in with white gloves and a clipboard like he’s Mr. Clean, or somethin’. Yeah, right, don’t think so.” She tossed her long curls over her shoulder. “He was way too fat to pull that one off, honey. Mmmm, hmmm.”
I laughed. “So what happened?”
“He screwed everything up, that’s what happened.” Gloria jerked her hand, and her margarita sloshed out of her glass.
I reached for a napkin, but she beat me to it, wiping it up without missing a beat.
Project Produce Page 3
