by Lois Greiman
I scowled at it, then at him. “I was thinking of baking a cake.”
He made some sort of indefinable noise that might have indicated disbelief. “Hope you got some groceries since my last visit, then.”
“I did.”
“Uh-huh.” He paced over to my pantry, bent over, and peered inside. His ass was as tight as a walnut. “What kind of woman doesn’t keep flour in her house?”
“One that’s too busy trying to stay alive when the local cops can’t keep a girl safe in her own backyard.”
He turned toward me with a smirk. “You been practicing that line?”
“No.”
He raised his brows.
“Well . . . just for a little while.”
His lips quirked up devilishly. He moved closer. “How’s it going with you and Bennet?”
“I, ummm . . .” How was it that this Neanderthal always smelled so damned good? He should stink like wildebeest dung and rotting meat. “Fine,” I said. “We’re doing fine.”
“Yeah? So you’re seeing him again?”
I forced myself to shrug. “Sure. He’s a nice guy,” I said.
He tilted his head noncommittally. “He says you showed up at his house dressed sexy and acting weird.”
I stiffened. Why the hell would a man tell another man that? Was nothing sacred? “I did not dress . . .” I paused, winced, changed course. “I did not act weird.”
He half smiled. “I assured him that’s normal for you.”
“I think you got the wrong idea, Rivera. I was on my way home from . . . church and—”
“He thinks you stole his checkbook.”
My mouth remained open. I cut my eyes toward the front door.
“Did you happen to steal his checkbook, Chrissy?”
“Why ever would I . . . ?” My voice sounded creaky, and stupid. I tried again. “Why would I steal his checkbook?”
He shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me why you do half the things you do. So you swear you didn’t take it?”
My lips moved. Nothing came out.
“Maybe it accidentally fell into your purse.”
I glared at him. “I didn’t steal it. Exactly.”
“What did you do . . . exactly?”
“Well, Solberg hadn’t shown up and—”
“You thought Bennet murdered him. So you dropped in at his house in a sexy getup and pinched his wallet. Makes perfect sense to me.”
I could only assume he was being facetious. “I had every intention of returning it.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“I did. I—”
“I’m not doubting you.”
“I swear I didn’t—” I began, then gave him a dubious glance. “You believe me?”
He shrugged. “You’re not the villainous type, McMullen,” he said, and setting his juice aside, settled his butt against my counter. Lucky damn counter.
“I’m not?”
“You’re more the type to naïvely get involved with the villainous type.” His eyes were all crinkly at the corners. I kind of have a thing for crinkly-cornered eyes. “Although, I have to admit, you have an outstanding ability to piss people off.”
“I do not. I can be extremely diplomatic.”
“Can you?”
“Yes.”
“Like you were with Hilary Pershing?”
“How—” I stopped myself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He chuckled. The sound did funny things to my insides. “She said she found some nutcase—her words, not mine—peering in her bedroom window.”
“Really?”
“Said this alleged nutcase was trying to pass herself off as a police officer.”
I refrained from telling him she had bought the lie—line, hook, and sinker.
“How odd.”
“Agreed,” he said. “Tiffany Georges is threatening to sue the city.”
“Oh, crap!”
He laughed at me.
I don’t like to be laughed at, and straightened my back. He watched me with a crooked half grin.
“Well,” I said, “if the cops would keep a closer eye on things—”
“What then, Chrissy?” he asked. “There wouldn’t be so many dreaded show cats in one house and folks burying things in their own backyards?”
I sharpened my glare and kept my mouth firmly shut.
“Everyone has a secret,” he said. “You had a shitload of them. That’s why I’ve had someone watching you for a week or so.”
“You were—”
“Todd thought you made him in the Toyota, so we had to keep switching vehicles.”
“Was there an SUV?”
“There’s always an SUV.”
“So you were watching my office, too?”
“Todd knew something was up the minute Elaine was two minutes late from her lunch break. I think he might be hoping she’ll bear his children. Anyway, soon as you locked up shop in the middle of the day, he had a hunch and called for backup.”
“That’s why the SWAT team showed up so fast,” I said, but suddenly I heard a strange clicking sound in my vestibule. A moment later a monster came bounding through the doorway to my kitchen. It was the size of a small whale. I lifted the spoon in self-defense.
Rivera bent down and gathered the flop-eared beast into his arms. “There you are.”
I lowered the spoon. Apparently the ogre wasn’t hungry right now. “What is that thing?” I asked.
“What is it?” He straightened slightly, jeans stretched tight across his hips. Lucky jeans. “It’s a dog. What’d you think it was?”
It’s back was nearly level with my counter. It had ears like bicolored sails and a mouth big enough to swallow me whole. I’m not very large. “A cross between a bear and a sea cow?” I ventured.
“He’s just a puppy.”
“I’m sure you’re wrong.” I watched them frolic together. Rivera frolicking. Weird. And not alluring. Really.
“Guy in Eagle Rock found him trying to eat his oleander,” he said, glancing up. “That stuff’s poisonous, you know. So don’t plant any in your front yard. Stick with the cactus. It can survive anything. Even you.” He tugged at the piebald ears. “I haven’t had a puppy since Rockette was little.”
Rockette—Rivera’s dumb-ass excuse for leaving me high and dry not too many weeks earlier. “Uh-huh,” I said cautiously. “What’s that thing doing in my kitchen?”
“Poor guy was starving.” He gave it a smart slap on its ribs. It wagged its tail and circled ecstatically. The damn thing looked like it was still starving.
“Why’s it here?” I asked again.
He straightened. There was a spark of something diabolic in his eyes. “You left your door unlocked.”
I shook my head. No comprehension.
“You habitually forget to man your security system.”
“What—”
“Your windows aren’t properly secured.”
“That—”
“You don’t have the sense of a butterfly.”
“I do, too, have—”
“You need a dog.”
My mouth fell open. I blinked at him and breathed a disbelieving laugh. “There are a lot of things I need,” I said. “A manicure.” I held up a hand as proof. “A new septic system. A smoothie maker. But I don’t—”
“You need a dog.”
“I do not need a dog.”
The thing took off into my living room, loping like a delighted, wind-powered elephant.
“You don’t have to arm it.”
“I don’t even like dogs,” I said, temper rising.
He took a step toward me. “And I don’t like worrying about you every damned second of the day.”
“Well, you . . .” I drew a deep breath and gave in to thought. Some might have said it was about time. “You worry about me?”
He took another step forward. His eyes were fudge-brownie dark today. “You don’t have the sense of a toy poodle.”
>
I thought maybe I should be offended, but he was standing awfully close.
“You really worry about me?” I asked.
He took away the spoon, led me to the couch, and pulled me down beside him. The so-called dog took up most of the available space, forcing us to sit hip to hip. Rivera’s was hard and lean and attached to other interesting parts. Maybe dogs weren’t so bad after all.
“That’s why I should stay the night,” he said, “to keep you safe from all the knife-wielding crazies.”
My jaw dropped. “What?”
He grinned and rubbed his thumb across the hollow of my palm. I didn’t drool. “That didn’t come out quite like rehearsed,” he said. “But let’s concentrate on the staying-the-night part. We were interrupted last time. I thought maybe I could make that up to you.”
“Well, I just . . .” It was getting difficult to breathe. Men! They tend to do bad things to my equilibrium and my thinking apparatus. “I don’t know if that would be—”
He pushed a strand of hair away from my face, grazing my cheek with his fingertips. I felt my brain go soft.
“I could sleep on the couch if you really want me to.”
“Well, I don’t know.” I swallowed hard. “Did you bring your armor?”
“No armor. In fact, I think I may have forgotten my boxers,” he said, and kissed me.
About the Author
LOIS GREIMAN lives in Minnesota, where she rides horses, embarrasses her teenage daughter, and forces her multiple personalities into indentured servitude by making them characters in her novels. Write to her at [email protected]. One of her alter egos will probably write back.
Also by Lois Greiman
UNZIPPED
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed getting Unplugged, ’cuz next we’re getting . . . UNSCREWED.
That’s right, poor Chrissy still can’t quite get her ducks in a row. In fact, just when things seem to be going swimmingly with Lieutenant Rivera, his sexy ex-girlfriend—who happens to be his estranged father’s fiancée—is found dead next to Rivera’s unconscious body.
Accusations fly, familial bonds are stretched, and there’s no shortage of suspects. Maybe Rivera senior killed the poor girl, as the lieutenant himself is determined to prove. Maybe his hot-blooded Spanish mother had a hand in the act, or maybe Rivera himself did the deed in a fit of passion. But one thing’s sure: Chrissy is determined to stay out of the mix . . . for about thirteen seconds.
Tequila with Rivera’s mother, a date with his wealthy father, and steamy conversations with the lieutenant’s ex-girlfriends teach Chrissy more than she ever wanted to know. But she can’t seem to quit snooping, especially when Rivera threatens to tie her to her bedrail if she doesn’t—and her curiosity may have deadly consequences.
So pick up a copy of UNSCREWED at your favorite bookstore, won’t you? Oh, and get Unzipped while you’re at it—if you missed Chrissy’s first investigation, there’s a special sneak peek on the following pages.
Enjoy!
Don’t miss
Unscrewed
by Lois Greiman,
coming from Dell Books in Spring 2007
A sexy therapist.
A dead patient.
A case that’s about to come . . .
Unzipped
Don’t miss Christina McMullen’s
first case, available now from Dell.
Read on for a special sneak peek—
and pick up your copy today at your
favorite bookseller.
Unzipped
Lois Greiman
Even choosing the perfect dinner wine loses its earth-shattering importance if your guests happen to be cannibals and you, the unsuspecting entrée.
—Dr. Candon,
psych professor
M A’AM. MS. MCMULLEN.”
I tried to concentrate. The police had arrived with head-spinning haste. Apparently someone had heard my scream and dialed 911. My own call had probably gone to a hang-glider in Tibet.
Everything seemed foggy and unfocused, except for the body lying immobile on my overpriced Berber. That was as clear as vodka. His eyes were open and vividly blue, his hands limp, his fingers slightly curled. He lay on his back, but his jacket had fallen across his crotch with blessed kindness. Still, my stomach threatened to reject both the yogurt and the dehydrated orange.
“Ms. McMullen.”
“What?” I dragged my attention shakily away from Bomstad’s blank-eyed stare and supported myself with a hand on the top of my desk. The oak grain felt coarse and solid beneath my fingers. But the world still seemed strangely off-kilter. Maybe it was because I was wearing only one shoe. Maybe not.
The man addressing me was dark. Dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes, dark clothes. “Are you Christina McMullen?”
“Yes. I’m . . . Yes.” I sounded, I thought, about as bright as a Russian olive.
He stared at me for a good fifteen seconds, then, “I’m Lieutenant Rivera.”
I said nothing. My gaze was being dragged mercilessly toward the floor again. Those sky-blue eyes, those large, open hands.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re a psychiatrist?”
I pulled my attention doggedly back to the lieutenant’s face. It was devoid of expression, except possibly anger. A shade of distrust. Could be he looked cynical. Maybe devoid wasn’t exactly the right word.
His brows were set low over coffee-colored eyes that matched the dark hue of his jacket, and his lips were drawn in a straight, hard line.
“Psychologist,” I said. “I’m a . . .” My voice wavered a little on the vowels, making me sound like a prepubescent tuba player. “Psychologist.”
He didn’t seem to notice or care about the distinction. “This your office?”
“Yes.”
“You work here alone?”
“Yes. No. I . . .” Three men were examining the body and muttering among themselves. A fat guy in a wrinkled dress shirt that was miraculously too large said something from the corner of his mouth and the other two laughed. My stomach heaved.
“Yes or no. Which is it?” asked the lieutenant. Patience didn’t seem to be his virtue. Or empathy. Apparently, the fact that there was a dead guy staring at my ceiling didn’t faze him much, but it wasn’t doing a hell of a lot for my equilibrium.
“No. I usually have a . . . secretary.” For a moment I completely forgot her name, but then she’d only been my best friend since fifth grade, when she’d kissed Richie Mailor and declared him to have lips like the spotted pictus our science teacher kept in his aquarium. “Elaine . . . Butterfield.”
He was staring at me again. “Have you been drinking, Ms. McMullen?”
“I . . . No.”
“There are two glasses.”
“Ahhh . . .” My mind was wandering again. My focus crept in the direction of the corpse.
“Ms. McMullen.”
“Mr. Bomstad brought wine,” I said.
“How long have you two been lovers?”
My eyes snapped back to Dark Man. “What?”
“You and Bomstad,” he said. His tone was as dry as Bond’s martini. “How long have you been lovers?”
“We weren’t lovers.”
I can’t actually say he raised his eyebrows. Maybe one. Just a notch.
“We weren’t lovers,” I repeated, more emphatically. “He attacked me.”
“Do your customers always bring . . . refreshments to their sessions?”
I stared at him. I’d worked my damn ass off to become a high-class psychologist and I didn’t like his tone. “I can’t dictate what my clients do with their time,” I said.
“It’s your office. I would think you could.”
So that’s the way it was. My brother Pete and I used to have spitting contests. I had been declared the indisputable winner. But perhaps spitting wouldn’t be appropriate here. Just a stare-down, then. “You can think
anything you want, Lieutenant . . .”
“Rivera.”
“We weren’t lovers, Mr. Raver.”
Something like a grin appeared on his face, or maybe he was just curling a lip as he sized up his prey. There was a shallow scar at the right corner of his mouth. Maybe that’s why his expression looked more like a predatory snarl than a smile. The romance novelists would have called it sardonic. I didn’t read romance anymore. Now I was studying Tolstoy and thinking deep thoughts. Mostly I was thinking of giving up reading.
“What was he doing here after hours with no one else in the office?” Rivera asked.
“Elaine had a yoga class.”
“Did she?” he asked, and I wondered if he actually saw some significance in my blathering. “There a stain on your blouse, Ms. McMullen. Is it blood?”
“No.” I had never had a stain that fascinated people to such an extraordinary extent. “What would you think—”
“What was he doing here?”
I felt breathless. As if I’d run a long way. I don’t like to run a long way. I’d tried it on more than one occasion. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, in fact, if you call three miles a long way. I do. “What?” I said, struggling with the fog that threatened to engulf the interior of my cranium.
“Lover boy.” He nodded toward Bomstad’s body. “Why was he here?”
“For therapy,” I replied, “like all my clients.”
Two more men and one woman had joined the mob by the corpse. One of the men squatted by the body, suit crumpled, pen and clipboard in hand.
“What were you seeing him for?”
The fellow with the clipboard reached for Bomstad with his pen.
I jerked my attention back to Dark Man and raised my chin. I was pretty sure I looked like Hester Prynne. A first-rate martyr, but I felt a little faint. “Impotence,” I said.
“Hey.” The suited fellow’s voice was loud enough to wake the dead. Almost. “Looky here. He’s got a woody.”
Rivera’s eyes burned. I could almost meet them. “Damn, you’re good,” he said and my knees buckled.
I woke up in my own bed. I didn’t remember much about getting there. My head felt fuzzy and my stomach queasy. It took a minute for the memories to come rolling back into my brain. It was a dream. A bad dream, I told myself. But I’m nothing if not a realist. Which was what had convinced me to become a therapist in the first place. After years of depraved dating it had become apparent that all men are psychopaths. Therefore half the population needs professional attention. It was bound to be a lucrative field, and easy.
