Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [21]
“I’m pretty sure there’s no one there.”
“Good thing, ’cuz I’m the jealous type.”
“It’s my favorite thing about you.”
“You sure?” he asked, and applied more pressure to my thigh. I could feel the hard length of him against my happy skirt.
“Maybe I’ll reserve judgment.”
“The backseat,” he suggested again. His deep voice rumbled against my pheromones, but I tried to remain lucid.
“Isn’t there some kind of law against that sort of thing?” My tone didn’t sound very lucid.
“Only if you get caught. We won’t get caught.”
He was doing something tricky with his fingertips, stroking my back in a manner that rocked me to the tips of my toes.
“I’m a screamer,” I said.
He eased back half an inch. “What’s that?”
“When we do it,” I said. “I plan to scream.”
He murmured something. I’m not sure what it was but it sounded kind of naughty.
I swallowed and found a modicum of self-control. “And I don’t plan to do any screaming in a parking lot. Not unless someone has a gun,” I said.
“I could get my Glock,” he offered, but I was already pulling regretfully out of his grip. Adjusting my clothing, I sashayed away, sure my little ruffled skirt was rocking. Just as sure he was watching.
8
Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
—Sigmund Freud
I felt kind of powerful as I shimmied through Joe’s sliding doors. I didn’t look back. Cool me.
The grocery carts were mating in the entryway. I rudely pried one from its partners and proceeded into the store. The produce section, as colorful as Mardi Gras, called to me. The peppers looked ripe and sassy, the lemons firm and shapely. I picked one up.
“Take two,” Rivera said over my shoulder. “They’re small.”
I turned to him, über-controlled, one brow raised. “I was hoping otherwise.”
He exhaled his derision and pressed the extra lemon into my hand. “I believe you saw me showering.”
“Did I?” I said. “I hardly remember.” I skimmed the bananas.
He reached for a plantain, long and dark and thick. “Shall I attribute your forgetfulness to dementia or post-trauma?” he asked.
“How about to disinterest?”
“Not until you’re dead,” he said.
I gave him a look.
“And you’re not dead.”
I fluttered my lashes. “That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Meet me in the backseat and I’ll recite poetry,” he said, and weighed a Bosc pear in his right hand. His fingers curled tantalizingly against the firm fruit.
“It would almost be worth it to hear the dark lieutenant spouting Longfellow.”
“I was going to quote Browning,” he said, “but if you think Longfellow more appropriate …”
Our gazes met. A fork of electricity sizzled through me, but I managed to pull my attention away and move on.
He followed. Like I said, stalking … titillating.
“How are you stocked for meat?” he asked.
I smiled to myself. “Laney’s a vegetarian.”
He lifted a link of sausages. “But you’re strictly carnivorous.”
“You don’t know me, Rivera.”
He snorted a little. “I’ve saved your ass too many times to be mistaken.”
“There’s more to me than my ass.”
His gaze burned me. “You think I haven’t noticed?”
“The possibility crossed my mind.”
“I know where all the parts are.”
“Hmmff.”
“Climb in the backseat and I’ll prove it.”
“I think I’m noticing a recurring theme.”
“I always knew you were brighter than you seemed,” he said, and handed me a jar of honey.
I handed it back. “Too bright to play grab-ass in the backseat with Robocop.”
“If you’re worried about room, we could lower the seats, utilize the trunk.”
“You are a romantic,” I said, and wheeled my cart into the bakery department.
“I thought you should know,” he said, and handed me a package of dinner rolls. They were golden brown, creased neatly down the middle, and sexy as hell.
I put them in the cart, but did not caress them.
He handed me a twelve-pack of vitamin water he’d gotten from God knows where.
I gave him a look.
“We’re going to want to stay hydrated,” he said, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
It was then that my phone rang … a tinny little rendition of “Holding Out for a Hero.” I paused. I can’t tell you how many