Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [54]
Harlequin rumbled two deep-throated barks, then rested on his laurels and watched the door with a cocked head.
Probably Ramla with a concern about her sister, I thought.
But gazing through the peephole I saw a man. Big, black, and bulging with muscle, he was scowling at my disheveled front yard with what looked like an equal mix of awe and contempt.
For a moment I considered hiding behind the wall and pretending I wasn’t home, but chances were good that he was actually my date.
It was a testament to my courage … or my stupidity … that I opened the door.
“Vincent Angler?” I said. I was holding Harley back with one knee, stretching the mermaid dress to its coppery limits.
The man on my stoop skimmed me with his dark-syrup gaze. “White chick with the great legs?” he asked.
“I thought I was going to meet you at the coffee shop.”
“I was in the neighborhood,” he said.
“In Sunland?”
“In California.”
“Ahh.” I nodded stupidly. Harley was leaning heavily against my leg, trying to get a whiff of our guest’s genitals.
“That is one big-ass dog,” he said.
“He used to be a linebacker,” I said.
It was then that Ramla stepped onto her stoop. She was eyeing Vincent like he was a wolf and I a mutton chop. “Is everything with you okay, Christina?”
I gave Vincent a smile I hoped looked charming instead of apologetic. “Yes.” I gave her a little wave. “Everything’s fine.”
She was scowling above the gauzy swirl of her head scarf. “I should not call the 911?”
“Yes,” I yelled.
There was a pause. “Yes, I should call them. Or yes—”
“Don’t call them,” I said.
She paused for a couple more seconds, then nodded briskly and returned to her house.
Angler was watching me with brows cliffed low over his eyes. “The 911?” he asked.
“I, ahh … thought I saw a suspicious character earlier this evening,” I lied. There seemed little point in admitting some people were still inherently terrified of big black guys with muscle. Even more pointless admitting that one of those people was moi.
“Suspicious character?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Skinny little white guy.”
He was glaring at me. Or maybe he was just looking.
“White. Very white,” I added, and he chuckled finally.
“You gonna let a nigger in or what?” he asked. “It’s hotter than shit out here.”
“Oh, yes, sorry,” I said, and grabbing Harley’s collar, pulled open the door.
It wasn’t until then that I noticed the limo parked behind my Saturn. It looked like a thoroughbred humping a Shetland pony.
“Is that yours?” I said.
“You said it was black tie.”
“I didn’t say black car.”
He grinned crookedly and stepped inside. “I had something else planned.”
I closed the door behind him. “I’m sorry if I disrupted your evening.”
He shook his head, eyes gleaming as he skimmed my sleek, sausage-casing dress. “Not a problem.”
I cleared my throat and managed not to squirm. “Do you mind if I turn him loose?” I asked, nodding toward Harley.
“He going to eat me or something?”
“You’re awfully large.”
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” he said. I let Harley go and turned. I was starting to blush, and truth to tell, I wasn’t sure why. He may have been referring to the size of his ego, for all I knew.
“Do you want something to drink while I finish getting ready?” I asked, but privately I wondered what I would give him. Generally, real people aren’t thrilled about the prospect of drinking the magic Green Goo Laney serves, and it had been a while since I’d ventured into Trader Joe’s for nutrients.
“You fill out that dress pretty good,” he said.
“Umm.” I resisted running my hands down my body like Zsa Zsa or tittering like a tween. “Thank you.” Steady now, I thought, and put on my professional face. “But perhaps we should clarify this evening.”
He straightened a little, pushing out his chest and filling his nostrils. It was pretty impressive. “Clarify away.”
“This isn’t really a date.”
His brows rose a little. “So that rag is just something you wear ’round the house?”
I thought of a dozen snooty answers to that, then decided on, “Yes.”
His eyes gleamed