Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [69]
“So I’m not a two-year-old.”
“No.” His eyes seared me like I was a fine filet. “You’re a full-grown woman who constantly insists on getting shot.”
“That’s just it!” I said, adrenaline rushing through me, jumbling my thoughts. I hadn’t been anybody’s girlfriend for a long time. “I didn’t get shot. I thought I had but—”
My own stupidity stopped my words in their proverbial tracks.
The room had gone deadly silent.
“But what?” he asked. He was standing close enough to scatter my brain waves.
“I …” I shrugged. “I was wrong.”
“He shot at you?” Anger danced a tight jig in his lean-muscled cheek.
“Is it too late to get back to the part about my being your girlfriend?”
“The bastard shot at you?” He gritted his teeth as he shifted positions and glared at the back door.
“No. No,” I said, shaking my head tentatively. “I just thought … Maybe it was someone’s car backfiring or something.”
“Maybe you should move to a different neighborhood.”
“Not just this minute,” I said, and taking the one step that separated us, distracted him with a kiss.
24
Guys don’t make passes at girls with big asses.
—Peter McMullen, shortly
before Chrissy knocked him
unconscious
Rivera pulled away from the kiss, dark eyes smoking.
“Jesus, McMullen, you sure you went to that party alone?” Perhaps he had somehow sensed my sexual frustration.
“As a matter of fact,” I said, “I tried calling you. Left you a voice mail.” I didn’t mention the fact that I was just calling to make sure he was busy and couldn’t attend the premiere. “You didn’t bother returning my call.”
Maybe there was a smidgen of guilt in his expression. I pressed my advantage. “I admit I didn’t really feel like going alone, but you’d be surprised what I’ve learned to do solo.”
I didn’t really plan for the statement to sound suggestive, but the words were out there, along with the vibes. I watched his eyes go sultry. His nostrils flared.
“Lucky for me you made it home without some jackass sniffing at your tail.”
“Fortunate,” I said, and raised my chin a little as estrogen sluiced through me. Hold on to the gunwale, girls, it’s high tide.
“Holy Jesus,” he said, and glancing down at the gown’s iridescent fabric, cupped my left breast. It made me reconsider selling it. “Is this dress painted on?”
“Yeah.” I hoped to sound sassy, but would have been grateful for coherent. “It washes right off.”
He drew a deep breath and skimmed his hand over my ribs to my waist. “You must have had your Mace handy at the party, too.”
“I kept it around my neck,” I said. “Right between my boobs.”
He dropped his gaze from my eyes to my body and stopped. “I take it your cell phone was occupied elsewhere at the time?”
I glanced down. I’d totally forgotten I’d shoved it in there. Reaching up, I snagged it from its cozy spot. My breasts sprang back into place like warm bread dough.
By the time I glanced up, his eyes were shooting sparks like fireworks. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “When did we first meet, McMullen?” he asked, and moving a little closer, slipped his palm around my waist and over the slinky fabric barely covering my ass.
I shrugged, trying to look casual, but shit, I could hardly breathe. He expected me to employ my memory?
“August twenty-fourth, 2005,” he said.
“Yeah?” I was a little giddy at the fact that he knew the exact date. Or maybe there were other reasons.
“Yeah,” he said, and shifted a hard-muscled thigh between my own. “And you still haven’t fucked me.” His quads contracted against me, but swooning was no longer an option. Taking him down like a oversexed grizzly, however …
“The timing’s been iffy,” I said. “Too many phone calls.”
“You know what they say about timing,” he said, and kissed the corner of my mouth.
“I don’t believe I do.” The tone of my voice suggested I didn’t know much.
“There’s no time like the present.”
“That is a time-honored sentiment.”
“And you’re wearing that do-me dress.”
Maybe I should have argued with that, but