One Hot Mess Part 2

"You think it'd help business?"

"Depends. How crazy are they?"

I laughed, but just then there was a knock at the door. The laugh froze in my throat. It was well past nine o'clock in the evening. I have three really good friends-I was currently speaking to one, another was drooling on my leg, and the third was lying in vibratory preparation in the little drawer next to my bed. That just left rapists and somnambulists roaming the streets.

"Mac?"

"I think there's someone at my door," I said.

"Look and see who it is. I'll stay on the line."

I traipsed to the kitchen window and peeked between the curtains. I'd bought them on sale at JCPenney sixteen months earlier. It'd just be a matter of time before the wrinkles hung out.

"d.a.m.n it," I said.

"Who is it?"

"Rivera."

"Junior or Senior?"

"Junior." I slipped the curtains shut, but at that exact moment he turned his head toward the window. "Oh, c.r.a.p."

"What happened?"

"I think he saw me."

"Good. Go talk to him, get his opinion. See if he thinks it's wise to look into this."

"Yeah." I was hiding behind the wall. But I was pretty sure he could see through it. Like Superman. But without the cape. And the Speedo. And tights. "Yeah, that's a good idea."

There was a momentary pause. "What'd you do, Mac?"

I made a face but decided on the truth. "It could be I told the senator I'd keep this a secret." I was whispering now, though I was pretty sure Rivera would have to have Superguy's super ears to hear me.

"Why?"

"Because he offered me a c.r.a.pload of money," I hissed.

"So he is paying you."

"I haven't said I'd do it yet, but the man's richer than Zeus."

"I didn't even know they had an established monetary system on Olympus."

Rivera rapped on the door again. "McMullen," he called. "Open up."

I stood thinking in silence for a moment, pretty sure Laney had heard him. "Do you ever wish I weren't an idiot?" I asked finally, and she laughed.

"Never."

"McMullen!" He rapped again, louder this time.

"You'd better let him in, Mac. Doors are expensive."

"You'll be home soon?"

"Before the next attempt on your life," she promised.

"You'd better hurry," I said, and hung up.

"G.o.d d.a.m.n it, McMullen. Either that was you at the window or there's an intruder in your house. In which case I'm going to break-"

I opened the door before he could complete the sentence or activate the intent.

"Lieutenant Rivera," I said. My tone was ultra-controlled, but seeing him generally makes my ovaries emit some kind of supersonic whine heard only by bats and insects. "How nice to see you."

Harley tromped past me, skidding to a halt in front of Rivera, who rubbed the dog's ears and scanned the interior of my domicile, possibly looking for desperadoes and expatriates.

"You okay?" he asked.

Those were generally the first words out of his mouth. Like "h.e.l.lo" to nonpsychotics.

"I'm fine." I gave him my most charming after-nine smile. "Thank you for asking."

"You were d.a.m.n slow at opening the door," he said, and glanced through my foyer to my living room. A misplaced lamp shade and a pile of magazines could be seen from where I stood. He handed me a grocery bag and moved into the bowels of my house.

"What's this?" I asked, peering into the bag.

"Have you been burgled?" He moved into the living room, surveying the damage of my survival.

"What's with the flour?" I asked.

"Did you see the guys who did this?" Tossing my latest romance novel from the La-Z-Boy onto the couch, he took a seat not far from where his father had been just that morning.

"I didn't think the LAPD was allowed to be so hilarious," I said, and, following him into the living room, set the bag on the arm of the couch. There were approximately six food items inside. One was shrimp. They looked gray and unusually uninviting. "Normal men bring chocolates."

"I brought a recipe, too."

"Why?" I asked, pulling a carefully printed index card into the light.

"Give a woman a fish and she'll eat for a day" he said. Reaching beneath him, he came up with a comb and two ink pens. "Teach her to cook..." He tossed the pens beside the paperback. He looked good. Tired but rugged, dressed in faded blue jeans and a bone-weary T-s.h.i.+rt that knew what to do with a man's chest. "She'll make a man happy without getting naked."

I dropped the recipe back in the bag. "You wish you'd ever been so happy."

He watched me. The devil was s.h.i.+ning in his eyes. "You sure you're all right?" he asked again, but slower now, studying me.

"Just frustrated."

His brows rose hopefully. "Yeah?"

I gave him a look meant to scathe. "About my septic system."

"Still peeing at your office?"

"I prefer the term 'micturition,'" I said, but I didn't really. I grew up with three brothers. If I had used that word on any one of them, they would have laughed until their kidneys fell out.

Rivera snorted and rose to his feet. "That's not even a word."

"Isn't it kind of late for you to be irritating me, Rivera?" I asked.

"You have dinner yet?"

"I had a late lunch with a friend."

"How is Mr. McDonald?"

"Oh ho." I held my sides, faking laughter. "You are one funny man tonight."

He crossed the floor toward me. His movements were panther slow, his dark eyes steady as he stepped up close, caressing my arm and pressing his body lightly against mine. "That's not my defining characteristic," he said, and suddenly I could feel his erection through his jeans. I swallowed. I mean, it's not like I hadn't wanted to do the lance dance with him since the first moment we'd crossed proverbial swords, but I'd sworn on a stack of ex-beaus that I would play it smart this time.

"I thought we were taking this slow," I said.

"There's slow and there's dead," he said, and bending down with mind-numbing intensity, he kissed me.

It was the kind of kiss one reads about: hot and endless and full of spine-tingling promise. My endocrine system lit up like a switchboard, blazing through my mostly dormant body and tingling all the way to my toenails.

"And you're not dead," he murmured.

But one more kiss like that might kill me. On the other hand, he might kill me if he knew I was conspiring with his old man. They didn't exactly see eye to eye. h.e.l.l, they didn't even see eye to ankle. "Listen, Rivera..." I took a couple of fortifying breaths and tried to remember the less productive uses for lips. "Good kiss, by the by..." I sounded a little like I'd taken a heavy hit of nitrous oxide. "... but... I have to work tomorrow."

"Me, too."

"I should get to bed."

The scar-nicked right side of his mouth tilted up a quarter of an inch. "Just what I was thinking."

I could feel the rumble of desire in his chest and wondered rather fuzzily how my hand had become planted there.

He kissed the corner of my mouth.

"Maybe this isn't a great idea," I said, though every single body part I possessed screamed in synchronized disagreement.

"Something wrong?" he asked, and, slipping a few strands of hair back from my cheek, found that must-be-kissed area under my jaw.

I stifled a moan. Maybe. "No. I just-" I began, but in that moment he kissed me again, open-mouthed, until I thought I might pa.s.s out. I was now sprawled against the wall behind me, breathing hard and barely holding my sizzling instincts at bay.

He drew back a scant few inches, watching me. "Anyone trying to kill you?" he murmured. His breath s.h.i.+vered against my skin.

"Not until now," I managed.

He laughed. The sound was lovely and quiet and s.h.i.+mmied along my crackling nerve endings like a rogue electrical current. "I'm not trying to kill you," he said, and kissed me again.

"Yeah?" I felt limp and hot and desirable. Not unlike fresh-cooked linguini. "What are you trying to do?"

"If you haven't figured that out yet, I'd better feed you first. Let you build up your strength," he said. After watching me for a few more heart-pounding seconds, he kissed me again, then took the bag from the couch and disappeared into the kitchen.

Harlequin and I followed him in something of a haze. He had an a.s.s like a middleweight's, narrow and lean and as firm as eggplant. I found I wanted, quite badly, to grab it with both hands, but I forced myself to stop and lean a shoulder against the doorjamb, watching him.

"Maybe I'm expecting a hot date," I said.

Bending, jeans stretched tight over his plum-ripe rear, he took a frying pan from beneath the oven. He glanced at me from a c.o.c.keyed angle for an instant, eyes gleaming, then grinned.

I gritted a smile. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Come melt some b.u.t.ter," he said. If the desire in his eyes wasn't naked, it was at least indecent.

I sauntered over casually, making sure my hips were on a roll. They're what flowery amorists would call "generous," so I have to be careful, 'cuz sometimes when I get them going it throws the earth off kilter.

He handed me a bowl with a half pound of b.u.t.ter inside and amped up his grin. "Nuke it, will you?"

I turned away with a scowl, a little irritated, a little confused, a lot h.o.r.n.y. And that's when I saw my reflection in the microwave. I opened my mouth to scream, but no self-respecting noise would come out. My mascara had headed south, making me look like a shocked racc.o.o.n, and my hair! One side had somehow exploded, while the other was crushed to my skull like luncheon meat gone bad.

"Holy c.r.a.p!" I gasped.

He chuckled, then took the bowl from my numb fingers. "Electrical outlet or lightning?"

I combed my fingers through the frizzled tresses Clairol had optimistically called Rosewood. They were brown. "I thought you wanted that stuff melted."

Another chuckle as he dumped the b.u.t.ter into a pan. "Just wanted you to see your reflection."

"You been short of perps to torment at the station?"

"Perps?" He glanced over his shoulder at me, and there was something about the way he did it-with his mouth tilted up in beguiling mischief and his whiskey-dark eyes gleaming past the midnight fringe of his hair. It made me want to skip the meal and jump to the main course. "You been watching CSI again?"

"Maybe I could send you some houseflies to torture."

"Came here instead," he said, and twirled the b.u.t.ter in the pan with a knife. "Just to keep in practice."

"I'm not really in the mood right now."

He slid his gaze down my body.

"For that, either," I lied, and he laughed in that s.e.xy way that makes my hair tingle.

"Good thing I brought the makings for fettuccine, then?"

Screw my ovaries. My stomach suddenly felt like it had been awakened by a wet dream. "With Alfredo sauce?"