“Wow. I never thought I’d be so touched by an act of violent revenge,” she teased, laying her hand on his forearm again, “but thank you. That was so awesome.”
“My pleasure.” He studied her face. “I’m really sorry they embarrassed you. Your sister seems to have a knack for that, if memory serves.”
“So you do remember. Ugh!” She squeezed her eyes shut.
“Forget I said anything.”
“Hang on. Give me a minute to erase my brain.”
This time he reached out. He ran the back of his finger down her cheek until she opened her eyes. “I’ll never mention it again. It’s okay. You didn’t deserve it then, and you don’t deserve it now.” He held her gaze until she looked away.
Taking an almost imperceptible step back, Cristy cleared her throat. “Well,” she said in a breathless tone, “Marisol’s a pain in the ass, but she means well.” A shocked pause ensued. “Holy—” Her eyes went round and she shook her head with horror. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“Don’t worry.” He grinned. “I won’t tell her.”
She slid both of her hands into her back pockets, palms facing out, and rocked on the soles of her sandals. “So, everyone’s gone?”
“For now.”
“Except you. What’s your plan?”
He gestured to the interior of his Hummer. “More of the same. I’ll be here all night, so you can rest easy. Although I’d be obliged if I could use your bathroom now and then.”
A worry line bisected her forehead. “You can’t stay out here all night long.”
“That’s what I was hired to do.” God knows, he didn’t want to. He’d much rather be inside the house kicking back on one of the chairs, but that was all up to her.
“Yeah, but—” Her expression went from conflicted to decisive in a flash. “You know what? Come inside. Lola is staying in the guest room, but you’re welcome to the couch.”
“I don’t want to make you two uncomfortable.”
“Uncomfortable? You’re doing us a favor watching out for Simplicity. And…for me.”
“You don’t owe me anything. Don’t forget I’m getting paid. And I’m not cheap.”
“I know. But I don’t think I could sleep knowing you were stuck out here in this monstrosi—” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oops,” she mumbled through her fingers. “Totally rude. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
He laughed. “You’re not fond of the Hummer?”
Her face turned bright red, all the way to the tips of her cute little ears. “Oh. Well. It’s just a bit…large. And, you know, an environmental nightmare. Very ‘red state,’ if you want the whole truth. But other than that, it’s fine,” she added, in an overly chipper tone.
“Good thing it’s only a rental.” He teased her with a fake grimace. “How could I live with myself if I’d actually shelled out for the thing?”
Her expression brightened immeasurably. “A rental? Oh, that’s…that’s a relief. I mean…no offense.”
“None taken.”
She looked up and down the massive vehicle and crinkled her nose. “Good. I’ll shut up now. It’s just that it’s such an in-your-face vehicle. The whole Hummer attitude is more Marisol’s style than mine.”
“Agreed,” he said, in as serious a tone as he could muster. “This would definitely be the wrong choice of vehicles for a knitting needle ninja.”
“Very funny.” She crossed her arms. “Laugh all you want, but if you’ll recall, my needles and I got the drop on you, Mr. Not Cheap Bodyguard.”
“Touché. I might just start carrying the things myself.”
“Right.” She angled her head toward the house. “So, are you coming, or what?”
He raised one eyebrow. “Any of those cookies left?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes.”
“Say no more. I’m in. Those cookies are magic,” he said, as though they had been the determining factor. But really? He’d go just about anywhere Cristy Avila told him to go at this point, baked goods or no. She intrigued the hell out of him.
The last thing on his mind since he’d come back to Denver was women. His life had too many loose ends yet. And he especially couldn’t think of this woman, at this point in time, as anything other than a client. But the fantasy sure warmed him up. He grabbed his duffel bag from the passenger seat and jumped out, not wanting to give her a chance to change her mind. “I’m all yours. Show me to your cookie jar.”
“Geez, Mora.” She spun and headed toward the house. “You may not be cheap, but you sure are damn easy.”
With the bag slung over his shoulder using one finger as a hook, he looked down into her eyes. “Easy? Maybe so,” he said in a teasing tone, “but I always leave ’em smiling.”
“I just bet you do,” she said, almost too quietly for him to hear. Almost.
Grinning, he followed right at her heels, happier and calmer than he’d felt in a long time. Right up until the sound of breaking glass and Lola screaming knocked them out of fantasy land and straight back into reality.
Chapter 7
They burst into the kitchen and found Lola standing frozen—and splattered in cake batter—behind the Pasquini’s worktable. With a spatula death-gripped in one raised hand, she looked like some freaky, childlike, papiermâché version of the Statue of Liberty. The large mixing bowl in front of her contained what was left of the batter along with shards of broken glass and a piece of paper tied to a baseball with green jute.
Cristy skidded to a stop in the archway and her extremities went cold. Diego kept moving, systematically checking the rooms on the main floor.
A lump rose in Cristy’s throat. “Oh my God! Are you okay?”
“Sh-Shit on r-rye,” Lola said in a shaky whisper. A large dollop of batter dripped off the end of one of her dreadlocks and hit the hardwood with a splat. “What a godawful mess!”
Spurred into action, Cristy yanked a towel off the rack adjacent to the sink and rushed to her friend’s side. She pried the spatula away, set it on the table, then began mopping up the batter dripping off of Lola’s clothes and shoes.
“Talk to me, Lola. Are you hurt? Do I need to call an ambulance?”
“God, no. I’m battered but not broken. Get it?”
Relief rained over Cristy. She smiled. “Ah. You’re still a smartass. That’s a good sign.”
“It startled me is all. Here, let me.” Lola took the towel and finished up, a scowl on her face. “Asshole ruined my cake batter. It’s a complicated recipe, too, that needs to sit overnight. I so wanted to surprise the ladies with it tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry. You can start over with it, but I know that’s not the point. Did anyone get in the house?”
“I don’t think so. They just hurled that.” She pointed, and they both peered into the bowl. “Lucky shot, too. Had to be someone with one heck of an arm.”
“I’ll say.” The note was completely coated in batter, and hence unreadable. Someone needed to clean it off.
Diego stuck his head through the archway and pointed toward the mixing bowl, as if he could read their minds. “Don’t touch that,” he said. “Wait until I get back.”
“You’re the boss,” Lola said, raising both hands in a gesture of surrender.
Cristy followed Diego’s grim gaze up to the baseball’s point of entry: a small, arc-shaped, stained-glass window. Shattered. Some of the leading hung from the frame like broken bones, but other than that, it was a total loss.
Her heart squeezed, and part of her wanted to sit on the floor and cry. First the door, now this. She’d have to check with an historic salvage house to replace that piece, if it was even possible. Fury licked at her gut. This fiasco was costing her more than just her pride and reputation. Then again, she’d send Marisol the bill since all of this was her fault. Hell, maybe she’d tie it to a dirty brick and chuck it through the pristine windshield of Mar’s BMW.
“The house is clear,” Diego said as he strode th
rough the kitchen toward the back door. At the hallway entrance, he drew his gun, holding it close to his thigh. “I’m sure whoever did this is long gone, but you never know. Stay here, both of you. I’ll be right back.”
“As if we’d go anywhere,” Lola said as he headed outside. They heard the door snick shut and released their breath simultaneously. “Gosh, I’m glad he’s here.”
“Me, too,” Cristy reluctantly admitted.
“Not that I wouldn’t have cracked open a can of whoop ass on any of those perverts who came knocking, mind you,” Lola said with a sniff. “They don’t scare me.”
“Of course they don’t.” Cristy bit back the smile that wanted to appear and pulled out a chair. “Come on. Sit down.”
Lola wobbled to the chair and fell into it. Her shoulders sagged on another exhale. “God. Okay, I lied. The truth is, that scared the living crap out of me. I thought I’d been shot.”
“Don’t even say that.”
Lola held out her hands. “Look at me. I’m shaking like a junkie in detox. Speaking of detox, do I ever need a drink.”
“Say no more.” Cristy tried not to think of the damage to her wood floors as she crunched carefully through the broken stained glass and retrieved her best bottle of tequila from the cabinet. She snatched a lime from the fridge, hacked off a few wedges, then arranged them along with a salt shaker, the bottle, and two shot glasses on the end of the table in front of her friend. She waved a hand over the accoutrements. “Have at it.”
Lola eyed the spread. “I guess I don’t have to invite you to join me.”
“Hardly.” Cristy pulled up a chair, then grabbed one of the glasses and clanked it on the table. “Fill ’er up.” She eyed Lola’s hands. “Actually, allow me.”
After the shots had been poured, the women went through the lick-salt-lick-slam-lime routine once and then again. Cristy uttered a little moan of pleasure as the tequila burned its way down her esophagus. Her lips already felt numb and tingly. She couldn’t wait for her mind to follow suit.
Lola plucked the lime peel out of her mouth. “So, if you decide to go through with that plan to kick your sister’s butt, can I lay the boot to her a few times?”
Cristy removed her own lime, setting it on the table. “Yep. You’ve more than earned the privilege.” She stared at the disaster that was normally her clean, orderly kitchen. Chaos. It was just so Marisol. She couldn’t live with that. “I have to do something, Lo, before things get worse. This is nuts.”
“I agree.”
Cristy braced herself. “What do you think I should do?”
Lola repositioned herself in the chair. “Truthfully?”
“Of course. Your opinion means a lot to me.”
Lola twisted her mouth apologetically. “I think you should do the show. Decide on the rules and parameters, make your sister and that Teletubby partner of hers agree to each and every one of them in writing. But do the show.”
Cristy groaned, hanging her head back. “How did I know you were going to say that?”
“Because you’re a bright woman. You know, like it or not, that it’s the best solution to a really crappy situation you didn’t deserve.” She bit the rest of the lime out of the rind.
Cristy rolled her empty shot glass back and forth on the table with her fingers. “Part of me feels like going on the radio show will mean Marisol wins. I hate that.”
“You’re looking at it from the wrong perspective.” Lola hiked one shoulder. “You can’t change what she did, so face it head on. That way, you win.”
Cristy absentmindedly ran her finger through a puddle of batter, then licked it. It tasted of vanilla and almonds. “What if it just makes things a million times worse?”
“It won’t, and here’s how I know. We’ll call it the Dick Cheney Rule. In a nutshell, if you accidentally bust a cap in your friend’s ass while hunting, it’s best to just admit it. And the sooner, the better, too.”
Cristy nibbled nervously on a cuticle. “Good point.”
“It is. Remember how that whole thing worked out? We’re talking around-the-clock coverage on CNN and MSNBC, etcetera, until his advisors, or whoever the hell, convinced him to nut up and come clean about it. Once he talked, everyone else stopped.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that, his bonehead mistake was out of the headlines and into the history books.”
“I really, really hate that you’re right.”
Lola leaned closer. “Then consider this. Your sister has had an open platform to discuss your life all these years, and you’ve just had to sit back and silently take it.”
Cristy scoffed. “More like bend over and silently take it.”
“I was trying to be polite,” Lola said in a wry tone. “Anyway, maybe one of your rules for appearing should be that you can reveal anything you want about her, and she can’t reciprocate. Paybacks are a bitch, you know? Diss the hell out of her. Make stuff up if you have to.”
Cristy chuckled. “Okay, that would be fun.”
“So, do it.” Lola shrugged, then reached out and grabbed a fingerful of the batter for herself. “Hmm, too much salt.”
“Tasted good to me.”
“That’s because you haven’t tasted it when it’s perfect.” Lola wiped at the table with the batter-soaked towel. “Wyatt said Marisol’s running scared. I bet she’d agree to absolutely anything you demanded, just to get her baby sister back.”
“Well, I’m not promising that.”
Lola smiled knowingly. “You know that’s how it’ll work out, though. You’re family. Forgive and forget is required. And even if it wasn’t, you’d forgive her eventually because that’s the kind of person you are.”
“I suck.”
“No, you don’t. Not in the least.”
“What about the perverts, Lola? How will going on the show put an end to all that?”
Lola crossed her arms, thinking. “I don’t know yet. But surely we can figure out a way to exterminate them.”
Diego walked into the kitchen and thigh-holstered his weapon. “It’s all clear. No one lurking around.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Lola said, slopping a bit more tequila into her glass.
Diego looked at Cristy. “I called the cops, and a board-up service for that window. Everyone should be here soon.”
“Thanks. I hadn’t even thought that far ahead,” Cristy admitted.
He pressed his lips into a solemn line and smacked his fist into the other palm. “Damnit. Lola, I can’t apologize enough. That should not have happened on my watch. Are you okay?”
She slammed her shot, then held up the glass in silent salute. “Feeling no pain at this point, actually. Besides, it’s not your fault. Care to join us?”
He shook his head. “Thanks. Not while I’m working.”
“Oh, yeah. Diego’s going to stay on the couch tonight,” Cristy told Lola. The words felt thick on her tongue.
“That’s great. Maybe we’ll actually be able to sleep now. There’s only one problem.”
“What’s that?” Cristy asked.
Lola bit her bottom lip and flailed a hand in Diego’s direction “Dude is way to big for the couch.”
“It’ll be fine,” he said. “I won’t be sleeping much anyway.”
“Nonsense. You have to get some rest so you can protect us tomorrow. Listen,” Lola said, “I’ll bunk down with Cristy and you can have the guest room.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Unless, of course, you want to bunk down with Cristy.”
“Lola!” Cristy blanched, her mortified gaze ping-ponging from Lola to Diego before she looked away. “What the hell?”
“Shoot, did I say that out loud?” Lola laughed, then raised a finger. “That, my friends, was the tequila talking.”
Cristy moved the bottle away from Lola’s reach. “Yeah, well it sounded like Marisol talking. Cut it out.”
Diego’s gaze narrowed with suspicion. “I wasn’t outside very long. How much have you two had to drink?”
“Too
much. Obviously.” Cristy burned stink eye at Lola.
Diego’s lips spread into a slow, wolfish smile. “Looks like you’re the preferred bunkmate, Lola, much to my chagrin.”
Cristy’s palms began to sweat. She couldn’t hack the sexy banter at this point in her life. Or—who was she kidding?—ever. Especially not with Diego.
“But I will take you up on the guest room,” he added. “If that’s all right with you, Cristy.”
“Of course. Can we read the note now?” Cristy managed in a strangely tight slur. “It’s been a long day, and before that a miserable, sleepless night. If it’s all the same to you both, I’d like to head up early and let Calgon take me away.”
Diego crossed the room in two long strides. He studied the projectile floating in the batter bowl from a few angles, then muttered something and shook his head.
“What’s wrong?”
“I was hoping we might get fingerprints off of it, but with all the glop on it, I doubt it.”
“Glop?” Lola repeated.
“Just open it, then,” Cristy said, ignoring the chef’s mock outrage. “Fingerprints won’t do us any good if we don’t have a suspect to compare them with anyway.”
Diego peered up at her curiously.
She shrugged. “I watch all the cop shows, too.”
“Ah. Another armchair detective, thanks to the magic of television,” Diego said wryly. “God bless America.” He removed the baseball using his thumb and index finger, then pulled a folding knife out of his pocket and snapped it open. Carefully, he sliced through the jute until the ball rolled free of the paper, then he read. “Christ,” he muttered with disgust.
“What does it say?”
“Looks like we don’t need fingerprints after all, Detective Avila.” He shook his head. “It’s a note from some ballsy field reporter for the local Fox affiliate. Seems he wants to pay you for an exclusive.”
Names I Call My Sister Page 26
