The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [13]
“Hijo de puta!” she spat out.
J.T. gave her a small shrug and lifted the Corona bottle to his lathered lips.
“Angela, Rosalita. Rosalita, Angela. Angela is a current guest at our high-flying retirement resort. As for Rosalita . . . what shall we call you? An international hostess and entertainer?” He glanced at Angela. “Every year on September fourteenth Rosalita cleans me up. You might call it her frequent flyer program.”
Angela nodded, her gaze going from him to Rosalita to him with open discomfort. The tension in the room was unmistakable. “Nice to meet you,” Angela said at last, her voice unfailingly polite.
Rosalita froze, then began to smile. Then began to laugh. She repeated the words back to J.T. in Spanish, then chuckled harder. Nice to meet you wasn’t something other women generally said to whores. Only a good girl would feel compelled to say such a thing, and at this stage of her life, Rosalita knew she had nothing to fear from “good girls.”
She picked up the razor, shoved J.T.’s head back, and exposed his throat. She pressed the straight edge against his jawline and slowly rasped it down, her dark eyes gleaming.
Angela sucked in her breath nervously.
“She can’t kill me yet,” J.T. volunteered conversationally. “I’m one of the few men who can pay her what she’s worth.”
Four forceful strokes, and his neck was clean. Rosalita shoved his head to the side and turned her attention to his cheek.
Angela finally entered the room; she wore an old white tank top and frayed khaki shorts that had probably fit her once. Now, they hung on her frame. In daylight, her coarsely dyed, badly whacked hair looked even worse—as if she was wearing a bad wig. For no good reason, it annoyed him tremendously.
“Your wrist?” he barked, startling Rosalita and Angela both.
“My wrist? Oh, oh, that. It’s fine. Just a bit bruised.”
“I have some ice. We’ll put that on it.”
“No, it’s not necessary. It’s not even swollen.” She moved along the side of the room, up on the balls of her feet, her back to the wall. As he watched, still searching for something to do that would make him feel better, she took a careful inventory of all the exits. Someone had at least told her a thing or two.
Her gaze fastened on his iguana, a frown marring her brow.
“Real,” he supplied.
“What?”
“The iguana. That’s Glug. He’s alive.”
“Oh.” She looked at Glug for several seconds. The creature didn’t move.
“Where’s Freddie?” she asked.
“I gave him the day off.”
“Gave him the day off?”
“Yep.”
“So there’s no one here?”
“Rosalita probably doesn’t like to be called no one.”
“But she doesn’t live here, does she?”
“Nope.”
“So only you’ll be around today?” She was clearly nervous. Her stance went from relaxed to prepared. Legs apart, shoulders back, hips rotated for balance. Just as it had last night, it tugged at his brain.
Abruptly recognition came to him.
“Cop.”
She froze.
“Uh-huh. I noticed it yesterday—you stand like a cop. Feet wide, chest out for balance. Left leg slightly back to keep your holster out of reach.”
She looked cornered.
He frowned, angling his head more so Rosalita could attend better to his cheek. “You’re not a cop though. You can’t even hold a gun.”
“I’m not a cop,” she muttered.
“So just who are you, Angela? And what about your daughter?”
“What daughter?” Her voice had gone falsetto.
“Oh, give it up. You can’t lie worth a damn.”
She smiled tightly. “Then you’ll have to teach me how.”
“Idiotas,” Rosalita interjected. She grabbed the hand towel and rubbed the remains of the shaving cream from J.T.’s face with more force than necessary. “Hombres y mujeres? Bah. Perritos y gatitas.”
With another shake of her head she flattened her palm on J.T.’s chest and tried to launch herself from his lap. He clamped one hand over Rosalita’s wrist.
“Wait.”
He twisted her lush form on his lap, bringing her ample hips intimately against his groin. Angela had gone still, as if expecting some new form of attack.
“Look at her,” he said, pointing at Angela. “Look at that haircut,