“I’m doing great. Thanks for asking.”
Mom’s eyes shot up to mine. “Oh. Sorry. I’m just so excited to meet him,” she said, making little cutsie faces at my belly.
“How’s our preggo princess feeling, dahling?” my step-dad asked from behind her. Ralph, or Faux Dad, as I’d affectingly dubbed him, was the owner of Fernando’s Salon, believed unwaveringly in the uses of spray tans and Botox, and had shocked the entire world when he’d married my mom, dispelling everyone’s beliefs that he was gay (mine included). While Faux Dad was what is generally referred to as a “character” in Beverly Hills, he was a sweet guy, made my mom happy, and gave me all the free pedicures I wanted. So I had to love the guy.
“I’m doing fine, Ralph, thanks,” I answered.
“I’m so glad she’s cooperating for you. Any morning sickness? How’s the nausea? The cravings getting bad yet?” he asked all in one breath.
“Some. Good. No. What are you guys doing here?” I asked as they pushed into the room.
“We brought you a pre-sent,” Mom said in a sing-songy voice, holding up a pastel yellow bag with little duckies printed on the side.
Well, presents weren’t all bad.
“What is it?” I asked, peeking in over the tissue paper.
“Open it.” She thrust it proudly toward me.
So, I did, tearing the tissue out and digging my hands inside.
I came out with a soft, vinyl doll in a little yellow onesie covered in more ducks.
I blinked. “What is this?”
“It’s Baby-So-Lifelike.”
I raised an eyebrow at her. “You do know I’m having a real baby soon, right?”
Faux Dad nodded beside her. “Yes, and that’s why you need practice with Baby-So-Lifelike.”
Mental forehead smack. “Guys, I’m not twelve. I don’t need to play mommy with a doll.”
“Practice, not play, dear,” Mom corrected. “And, yes, you do. Honey, you have no idea what it’s like to have a child.”
“I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”
“It’s my fault,” she continued, running right over me. “I should have given you a little sibling, someone to look after.”
“Mom, I think we’ll manage-”
“Or at least a dog! I’ve left you completely unprepared for parenthood.”
“No one is prepared for parenthood,” I told her, repeating the reassuring words of my Lamaze teacher.
“Oh, I know, honey,” Mom said. She cocked her head to the side and did a frown-slash-smile oozing with sympathy. “But you are particularly unprepared.”
I rolled my eyes. “Gee, thanks.”
“No, no, like I said, it’s not your fault. And I don’t mean to be unkind, but it’s just… well, remember your ficus?”
I put my hand on my recently-ample hips. “Yes, I had a plant. Yes, it died. Plants die. That’s not the same as a baby.”
“And remember the replacement ficus I brought you?”
I paused. “Yes.”
“And then remember the plastic ficus I brought you after the replacement ficus died?”
“Vaguely,” I mumbled.
“What happened to that one?” she prompted.
I threw my hands up. “Okay, fine. I left it too close to the stove, and the plastic one melted. I can’t even keep a plastic plant alive.”
Mom handed Baby-So-Lifelike to me. “Keep him away from the stove, honey.”
I looked down at its plastic blue eyes staring up at me, its chubby limbs outstretched.
God help me.
* * *
It was warm. So warm I was sweating, my clothes clinging to me like Saran Wrap. I wiggled, turning from one side to the other, sure I was melting from the inside out. But I couldn’t get out of the tight clothes. I was going to suffocate in my own outfit.
Then suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, cool breath on my neck.
“Let me help,” a soft male voice whispered in my ear. And he did, his hands on my arms, sliding the sleeves of my shirt low until my right shoulder was bare. It felt wonderful. Heavenly, as a cool breeze wafted over me, creating goosebumps.
Then he dipped his head low, his lips kissing their way across my exposed skin. A shiver snaked down my spine despite the heat still searing into me. Heat that was moving, changing, traveling south and ending just below my waist. Intensifying until a moan escaped me, and I wriggled closed to him. His body was solid, cool, his hands commanding, but it was his lips that I craved. His lips were so soft, so smooth, so feather light on my skin. Not warm, like you might imagine, but cool. Cold. Ice-cold and so welcomed against my over-heated skin. I was dying to feel those lips everywhere – my neck, my earlobes, my mouth. And then, as if he could read my thoughts, his kisses traveled higher, his breath dipping at the small of my neck as his lips whispered across my jugular. I moaned again, unable to help myself.
I turned my head to get a look at my husband.
But it wasn’t Ramirez’s face I saw.
The pale blue eyes staring back at me were Sebastian’s, framed in impossibly long lashes below spiky black hair that clung to his head looking wild and dangerous. He grinned at me, slowly, wickedly, showing off a pair of gleaming white fangs, then swiftly dipped his lips to my neck…
I sat up with a gasp, my breath coming hard as I fought with the sweaty sheets tangled around my legs. I blinked in the darkness, trying to get my bearings. Slowly, familiar shapes came into focus. My cherry dresser, my mirrored nightstand, my closet, doors open and overflowing with shoeboxes.
I was in my own bed, in my own bedroom. It was just a dream. I let out a long breath, slowing my heart rate down. Just a dream.
Just a little, nothing to worry about, sex dream about a vampire.
I glanced over at the blinking numbers on the alarm clock. 1:13 AM. And, I noticed, no husband lying in the empty spot on the other side of the bed. I flipped on the bedside lamp and shoved my feet into a pair of fuzzy pink slippers, going in search of said husband.
A single light was on in the living room, next to the sofa where I could see Ramirez reading in the shadows. I had no idea when he’d gotten home, but a cup of coffee beside him told me he hadn’t yet entertained the idea of sleep. He had a sheaf of papers in his hands, flipping through the pages. His face was in shadow, his cheeks dusted with stubble, his features softened by exhaustion just enough to give him a warm, inviting look. I felt a remaining tingle from my erotic dream hinting as I sat down beside him.
“Hey,” I said softy.
He looked up, a grin quickly spreading across his face. “Hey, yourself. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
I shook my head. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither,” he sighed, staring down at the papers in his hands again.
I leaned in close, my head resting on his shoulder. I inhaled deeply the woodsy scent of his morning aftershave, still clinging faintly to his collar. And felt that tingle kick up a notch. “What’s that?” I asked, pointing to the paperwork.
“Just work,” he responded, throwing an arm around me.
I snuggled closer. “Work? The Alexa Weston case by any chance?” I asked.
He nodded. “Background reports.”
I squinted down at the small type. “What’s it say?”
“Not much, unfortunately. She grew up in San Diego, then moved north about three years ago to start an acting career.”
“Family?” I asked.
“Parents are dead. She has one sister in Corona Del Mar.”
“And?”
“And the local PD talked with her yesterday. She hasn’t seen Alexa in months. Apparently Alexa was a bit of the family back sheep.”
Imagine that.
“You get the medical examiner’s report back yet?” I asked.
I felt Ramirez shift beside me. “No. And even if I had, I’m not sure I’d be sharing it as bedtime reading with my wife.”
“Hey, I found her body,” I protested.
�
��So what else is new?” he mumbled.
I gave him a playful elbow to the ribs.
“Ouch. Watch it,” he said, but I felt his torso bob up and down with a suppressed chuckle.
“I’m just feeling a little guilty about it all,” I confessed.
“Why? You kill her?” he teased
I gave him a less playful elbow this time.
“No. But I did wish her dead right before she turned up dead.”
“Which had nothing to do with her actual death,” Ramirez pointed out.
I nodded. “I know. But, well, I just feel bad. Had I known it was her last night on Earth, I might not have called her a bitch.”
Ramirez hugged me tighter and planted a kiss on the top of my head. “I’m sure she’s not holding it against you.”
The kiss was nice. Comforting. And if it was a little lower and a little slower, it might turn into something else. “You coming to bed?” I asked, getting up.
Ramirez shook his head, picking up the papers again. “Soon. I just want to go over a couple more things here.”
“Oh.” I tried not to let my disappointment show. “Okay, ‘night.”
“’Night, Maddie. And, hey, don’t worry,” he added. “We’ll catch whoever did this to Alexa.”
I nodded. “I know,” I said before shuffling back to the bedroom. Which was the truth.
I just didn’t know which one of us would catch that person first.
Chapter Eight
“Seven a-m,” I said with a sigh.
Dana blinked at me. “So?”
“Ramirez didn’t come to bed until seven a-m,” I told her and Marco over cups of herbal tea the next morning. A fact that had distressed me so much that as soon as Ramirez had slunk out of bed and slipped off to work that morning, I called Dana for a much needed girl-whine. Good friend that she is, she’d called Marco for back-up and they’d both shown up on my doorstep a scant fifteen minutes later with a box of tissues in one hand and a box of chamomile in the other.
“And he left me again at nine,” I added.
“He didn’t leave you. He left for work,” Dana said, sounding way too logical.
I nodded. “I know. You’re right. But you’re missing the point. When he’s at work, I can handle that. But he was here last night. He just didn’t want to sleep with me.”
“Honey, are sure you’re not overreacting just a little?” Marco asked, sipping from his paper cup. He’d wisely stopped at Starbucks on the way here today, bringing with him a fully loaded latte. Vanilla if my nose didn’t deceive me. With cinnamon. I was so jealous.
I shrugged. “Yes. No. I don’t know. But this is the second night in a row that I’ve slept alone. And I just know that… well… things aren’t the same lately.”
“What things?” Dana asked.
“Very important things.”
“Such as?”
I sighed. “Such as, do you know when the last time we had sex was?” I asked.
Marco shot a look at my belly. “I’m gonna say five months?”
“Ha. Ha. Very funny,” I mumbled. Even though he was almost right. I’d like to think it was a coincidence that the homicide rate had suddenly picked up the same time I started looking like a large water mammal, but lately I was starting to have my doubts.
“I’m just not sure I do it for him anymore, you know?”
“He’s just busy,” Dana reassured me. “You know how he is when he’s hot on a homicide. Ramirez is crazy about you. I mean, didn’t he come home early last Monday?”
I nodded. “Because we had Lamaze class.”
“Well, what about the week before. He took a whole afternoon off, didn’t he?”
“To help me pick out a jogging stroller,” I pointed out.
“Honey, your social life is making me sad,” Marco said.
I shot him a look. “Watch it, pal. I outweigh you by a good twenty pounds at the moment.”
Marco looked down at my belly again. But he shut up.
“Look, I’m sure when this case is wrapped up, Ramirez will be all over you again,” Dana said.
“I don’t know if I can wait that long,” I whined. “I mean, you have no idea what it’s like. I’m experiencing… well, some pregnancy side effects that I’m having a hard time dealing with on my own,” I hedged.
“Like what?” Dana asked, concern drawing her eyebrows together. “Nausea?”
“Not today.”
“Bloating?” Marco asked.
I shot him a look. “Do I look bloated to you?”
He was wise enough not to answer that.
“Pickle cravings?” Dana asked.
I shook my head. Even though a pickle didn’t sound half bad, now that she mentioned it.
“Is it the gas?” Marco asked, scrunching up his nose. “I heard pregnant women have excessive gas.”
“No! God, you guys are really making me feel better about myself here.”
“Sorry,” Marco mumbled, though his nose was still scrunched up as if he wasn’t 100% convinced.
“So, what is it?” Dana asked.
I bit my lip. “It’s, well, it’s kind of embarrassing, but… it’s the hormones.’
Dana gave me a blank look. “Like… weepy hormones?”
I shook my head. “Worse. Horny hormones.”
Marco let out a blast of laughter, and Dana covered a snort with her hand.
“I’m serious!” I said. “The hormones running through me right now are insane. I’m like a fifteen-year-old boy or something. All I can think about is sex,” I said, remembering my dream from last night all too vividly.
Marco giggled again, but Dana put a sympathetic hand on my arm. “I’m sure that as soon as Alexa’s killer is caught, you can get Ramirez to set aside some alone time to… take care of your problem.”
I nodded, sincerely hoping she was right. “Speaking of which, I got some background info on Alexa last night,” I told them, quickly filling them in on the scant few items I’d picked up from Ramirez’s reports.
When I’d finished, Dana said, “It doesn’t sound like Alexa and her sister were particularly close.”
I shook my head. “No. But one thing Ramirez said stuck with me last night. He said that her sister described Alexa as the family black sheep.”
Marco nodded. “Being a vampire will do that.”
“But Ramirez said that her sister hadn’t seen her in months. Alexa only started the vampire gig a few weeks ago. So what made her the black sheep before then?”
“Oooo, good question,” Dana agreed. “Maybe she was into some bad stuff before, and it caught up to her.”
“What do you think it could have been?” Marco asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. But I bet her sister does. Anyone up for a trip to the beach?”
* * *
Twenty minutes later I was showered, blow-dried, and stuffed into a pair of stretchy white pants, a flowy, oversized pink baby-doll top, and a pair of cute, suede ankle boots. I grabbed an oversized white, leather tote and met Dana and Marco at the curb beside her Mustang.
Marco took one look at my tote and scrunched his nose up. “What’s that?” he asked.
I looked down. “What? It’s a Santana. It’s very this-season.”
“Not the bag, Mads. The arm sticking out of it.”
I looked down again. He was right. One chubby, vinyl arm was peeking over the edge of the tote. I quickly tucked it back inside.
“It’s nothing,” I mumbled.
“Maddie,” Dana said, drawing out the word. “Should we be worried about you?”
I threw my hands up. “Fine. It’s Baby-So-Lifelike, okay?”
“Baby so whatnow?” Marco asked.
“My mom thinks I need practice being a good parent, so she gave me this doll to lug around.”
“Yeah, I’m not so sure good parents stuff their kids into their Santana bags,” Marco informed me.
I shot him a look that could freeze his latte in two seconds flat. �
�Just get into the car, Auntie Marco.”
* * *
Corona Del Mar, Spanish for “crown of the sea”, is about an hour south of Los Angeles and actually a pocket of Newport Beach that’s just expensive enough to get its own name. Dana had the address I’d swiped from Ramirez’s background report last night programed into her GPS, and only two wrong turns later we pulled up to 712 Cambert Drive, home of Phoebe and Bill Blaise. It was a single story, typical California ranch style home on a street lined with palm trees. While we were a good two miles from the ocean, the air still had a salty tinge to it. I inhaled deeply, the sweet scent a welcome change from the perpetual ode de smog that had hung in the air over L.A. since our last big rain.
Dana parked the Mustang at the curb, then we walked up the front steps, where Marco gave a sharp rap on the door.
Two beats later it was opened by a tall man with a thick head of dark hair, thick glasses on his nose, and a thick, dimpled neck that looked like it was made of flesh-colored Play-Do. “May I help you?” he asked, his voice a deep baritone.
“We’re looking for Phoebe Blaise?” I asked, trying to look past him into the home. From what I could see of the living room, light pine and nautical navy blue dominated the color scheme, large, comfortable looking furniture filling every nook and cranny.
“And may I ask who you are?” he said, suspicion lacing his voice as he took in our threesome.
“My name is Maddie Springer,” I said, trying my best at authority. “And these are my colleagues. We’re looking into the death of Alexa Weston.”
“The police were already here,” he hedged, his eyes going from Dana (today dressed in a black tube top, hot pink skirt, and matching hot pink wedges) to Marco (still donning his pink trench, though he’d paired it with leopard printed pants and a purple tank top today), to me and my baby-filled tote.
“We’re not with the police,” I quickly reassured him. “We represent the club where Alexa was killed.”
He nodded, this seemingly a little easier to believe. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what help we can be.”
“We were just wondering if we could ask Alexa’s sister a couple of quick questions, then we’ll be out of your hair,” I promised.
Fearless in High Heels Page 5
