Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [1]
“In your dreams,” I said, but the dreams were more likely to be mine. I’d had enough fantasies about Rivera to fill an erotic miniseries.
“You’re usually Catwoman in my dreams.”
“Catwoman.” My stomach tightened a little at the thought that I might occupy his late-night imaginings.
“Crime fighter with a tail.”
“You’re one sick bastard,” I said, and he laughed.
There was something about the sound of it that did naughty things to my otherwise saintly equilibrium.
“Maybe you could play the doctor this time.” His voice rumbled through me, but I fought off the effects. After all, I was no longer a pubescent tuba-player. In fact, I had worked like the proverbial dog to become a card-carrying psychologist. Even harder to become immune to the kind of low-level charm Rivera exudes like rush hour exhaust fumes.
“Did you have a reason for calling?” I asked.
“This is it,” he said.
“Sexual harassment?”
I could hear the shrug in his tone. “I won’t call the cops if you don’t.”
I snorted. Sometimes when I’m really tired I tend to sound like an overwrought Guernsey and it was now … holy cow … 11:22.
“So what do you think?” he asked.
“About what?”
“Sex.”
The buzz that had begun in my overzealous endocrine system geared up to an insistent hum. “In general or—”
“Now.”
My breath caught in my throat. “You’re not under my bed or something, are you?”
“Freaky,” he said. “But if that’s what trips your trigger, I’ll try to squeeze in.”
“Big of you,” I said, and refrained from dropping my head over the edge of the mattress to take a peek.
“You’ve no idea,” he said.
I resisted rolling my eyes, mostly because, in actuality, I did have something of an idea. There had been a rather memorable episode involving an overdose of Nyquil and Rivera … in the shower.
“Listen, Rivera, as much fun as this is, I have to work tomorrow.”
“I didn’t think it would take that long, but I’m willing to call in sick if you think it’s necessary.”
“Are you drunk?” I asked.
“That’s not the adjective I’d use.”
“Adjective …” I rolled onto my back, warming to the conversation. “I’m impressed.”
“They’ve been teaching us to read down at the station.”
“Our taxes,” I said, “hard at work.”
“I’m willing to share what I’ve learned.”
“Maybe you can send me a syllabus.”
“I could deliver it in person.”
“I said ‘syllabus,’ not ‘syphilis.’”
He chuckled. I could hear his chair squeak as he leaned back, and imagined him stretching, body arched, cuffs rolled away from well-muscled forearms, black hair teasing his button-down collar. “You always this mean when you’re sleeping alone?”
“Who said I’m alone?”
“Me.”
“Maybe you’re wrong.”
“I’m willing to put money on it.”
I considered swearing at him, but that was the old Chrissy. The new Chrissy was saving the “f” word for major emergencies. And L.A. drivers. Low-fat muffins. And Mondays.
“Unless Elaine’s sleeping with you,” he said.
“I’m not that desperate.”
“Yes you are. But if she’s not doing her fiancé I think I can trust her with you.”
I scowled. He had inadvertently touched on a raw nerve. Brainy Laney Butterfield, beauty personified, and my best friend since the fifth grade, was betrothed to a man I referred to in nothing but four-letter words. The kindest of them was “nerd.”
“So how you doing with that?” he asked, and I wondered in my sleep-deprived brain if that was why he had called in the first place. It didn’t take a genius—or a Homo sapien—to know that I was patently unhappy about the impending nuptials. It wasn’t just because Elaine would forever belong to someone else. It was because she would belong to the geekiest guy on the planet. And that made my skin crawl.
“Fine.”
“Yeah?”
“Of course.” Reaching out, I fiddled with the pad on Harlequin’s left hind paw. I’d learned early on that Great Danes did not necessarily make stupendous watchdogs. He was a gift from Rivera. As was my Mace, the cactus that guarded my yard, and the baseball bat