Lime Ricky (Romantic Suspense)

by Jill Winters

  They said good-bye and once Gretchen was safely inside her building, she peeked through the narrow window beside the front door to watch Rick's car go, then smiled to herself.

  * * *

  This isn't going well.

  Rick's thought exactly before he'd spoken to Brett the following day. Christ, when he thought back to his date with Gretchen—screw mission; it had turned into a date the minute he'd seen her in that blue dress—and how he hadn't bothered to find out one damn thing about Susanna Tate. Where was his head?

  If only he'd thought to ask Gretchen one question remotely relevant to the case last night. Where was his focus? It didn't take much for him to still feel her fingers clinging to his shirt, then his collar, the warmth of them seeping into his neck, those thready little moans she'd made when she was kissing him back.

  Expelling a frustrated sigh, Rick rubbed his eyes; shit, he needed to get on track.

  Rick's guilt was moderately appeased when he called his brother.

  Brett was in great spirits. Still no new threats, which was good... but at the same time seemed bizarre since, presumably, the killer had missed his target. But apparently things had been quiet for Brett since his agent's death, and his new bodyguard helped to ease his mind.

  Still, why wasn't Brett more worried? In general, he wasn't exactly a brave guy. On the other hand, he was a charmed guy. Things had a way of working out for him, so maybe he figured this would, too.

  "Dude, I am worried," Brett insisted when Rick asked him about it over the phone. "Would I have hired Epau if I wasn't? I've got him with me all the time, and his boys are downstairs watching the lobby and the elevators. I feel safe with them."

  "Who are Epau's boys?" Rick asked.

  "His cousins from Hawaii or something. I didn't catch the details. But they're all huge."

  "Well, that's good. Someone's most likely still trying to kill you; remember that."

  "Jesus! What are you trying to do, freak me out just when I tell you I'm feeling better about everything?" Brett whined.

  "You'll feel better when you go to the police," Rick stated bluntly. "The longer you wait, the worse it's gonna be."

  "Yeah... I guess... but hey, I was thinking, if we figure out who's out to get me without having to go to the police about the whole Misty thing..."

  "We? What are you doing?"

  "What are you doing?"

  Valid point. "Not much yet," Rick admitted. "Although... last night I went out with that Gretchen to see if I could find out anything."

  Brett snorted. "Gretchen? Please, what could she know? She just started. Anyway, I'm sure she's too busy wiping Susanna's ass after she shits to notice much else."

  "Hey," Rick said sharply, "a little respect." His tone was forceful even to his own ears.

  "What? I'm insulting Susanna really, not Gretchen."

  "Whatever, just don't speak about her like that. In fact, don't speak about her period. How's that?"

  "Where's this coming from?" Brett said, sounding confused.

  "Oh, wait, did you and she...?"

  "No," Rick said quickly. "No, nothing like that." Rick had only thought about having sex with Gretchen—until they were both were sweaty, wrung dry, and could barely move—but he had yet to actually do it. "We just talked. But unfortunately, not much about the case."

  "Then what did you talk about?" Brett asked, sounding totally bewildered as to what two people could possibly talk about that didn't involve him.

  "Just our backgrounds. My life... I don't know, whatever, that's not the point," Rick said stopping abruptly, realizing he was zoning off the subject.

  "Well, what are you telling me? You like her now or something?"

  "It was a good time" was all Rick said.

  "Fine, so great, you like her, she's a great girl, but right now we have bigger issues," Brett said.

  "That's what I've been telling you. By the way, have you seen that woman, Kit, lately?" Rick asked, afraid of the answer.

  "Nah," Brett replied, which was a relief. The less complicated his life was, the fewer people he gave access to his world, the better off he'd be. "Normally, I'm the one who calls her, but lately, I just haven't been in the mood to get together. You know, with Misty and everything..." He paused, then said, "So, do you still think it might be Susanna?"

  "I don't know," Rick said. "I want to find out more about her and the other people who work with you, too, but you don't seem to know much about anyone else" —which kind of came with being self-absorbed—"and I can't exactly show up at your workplace asking lots of questions. Don't forget, you've already introduced me to everyone as your brother. How exactly do you expect me to crack this? You can't even name one person who might want to kill you."

  "No, that's not true," Brett said. "I guess Susanna might. She's big, but not as big as she used to be. She's getting old and she knows it. Sure, she's only in her late forties, but it's like anything, you know? Old talent fears young talent."

  That gave Rick pause. "What about that older guy who was at your house? The one with the cowboy hat?"

  "Ray?" Brett said, then waved his hand as if Ray wasn't a person worth any consideration. "Nah, he's harmless. Besides, he's got nothing against me—and, from what I hear he left New York this week."

  "Left to go where? And for how long?" Rick asked curiously. Brett shrugged. "I don't know. I just heard people saying something about him going away for a while, to Tennessee, I think—that's where he's from—but I don't know if he's moved back there or if it's just a long vacation. The point is, if he were trying to kill me, don't you think he'd stick around? Oh! Wait, I just realized! That was a great idea you had about hanging out with Gretchen. You can totally bullshit her into letting you go backstage and scope out Susanna's dressing room—"

  "What else?" Rick interrupted, feeling the uncomfortable coiling of guilt in his stomach. Was lying to Gretchen about his motives, was using her, okay as long as he really did like her?

  "Let me think now..." Brett said. "Have you considered that it's a crazy obsessed fan? A girl who thinks she's, like, in love with me? Or maybe it's a guy who's in love with me."

  * * *

  Rolling his eyes, Rick struggled to keep his tone even. "But it had to be someone at your party. You said yourself that's the only time someone could've poisoned your sauce."

  "Oh, that's true. I forgot. Unless... maybe someone crashed the party and I just didn't notice. There were so many people there, it's possible..."

  "But how would a fan know about the Hawaii trip? You said that was still in the works and hadn't been officially announced yet."

  "Right, right," Brett mumbled.

  "Also, this isn't exactly stereotypical crazy-fan behavior," Rick said, thinking about it more himself. "Or the behavior of someone who thinks they're in love with you. If someone were obsessed with you, they'd want to get your attention, to string you along longer, to make you notice her—or him," he threw in to appease Brett. "It just doesn't make sense. Why call you twice and send you a one-line email and then nothing else after that?"

  Brett paused and thought about it. "What about this possibility?

  Those threats were just to torment me. Whoever's behind them wanted to, I don't know, mess with my head—shake my confidence, throw me off my game. Probably planned to drag it out a lot longer, like you said, but then an opportunity came up. A chance to get rid of me instead of waiting for me to self-destruct."

  Huh. Brett actually made good sense. The opportunity that had come up was Brett's party. And considering how virtually untraceable the Destroying Angel mushroom was once it destroyed its victim, it had probably seemed like a clean and perfect crime.

  Rick remembered what Jay Bernbaum had said about how the Destroying Angel mushroom didn't grow in the Northeast but was accessible to anyone who was determined to get it. Misty Allbright's murderer had certainly been determined.

  "By the way, since we've ruled out obsessive love as the motive," Brett said, "I don't ex
pect you to care about this—but you said you want to know about the people I work with." Rick waited. "Cady Angle, you know that chubby chick with the dessert show? She totally wants me. And I've always wondered if she was still a virgin. Just throwing that out there."

  * * *

  Between tapings, Gretchen was on her way to Susanna's dressing room when her cell phone rang, and she was pleasantly surprised when she saw the number.

  "Hi, Mom," she said when she answered it. She was starting to think with the success of their dentist mystery novel series, her parents had forgotten her entirely, that maybe at their swanky book parties when people asked how many children they had, they reflexively answered, "One—Dr. Culpepper."

  "Why haven't you called me?" Gretchen blurted, which was a terrible move. Why make her mom defensive, especially when she knew exactly what she'd say?

  "The phone works both ways," she said. Yup, that was it. Florence Darrow didn't buy into that whole guilt and maternal obligation thing that other mothers did.

  "I know," Gretchen admitted. "It's just... Nothing, never mind." It was just that she'd hoped her parents would think of calling on their own now that they were all in the same time zone... and maybe they'd want to check on her new place, her new job, her new city. Basically, she'd wished her parents gave a damn, were more like Dana's parents.

  "Is something wrong?" her mom asked, sounding confused by Gretchen's silence.

  "No, I just missed you guys, that's all. How's the book tour going?"

  "Oh, it's crazy," she replied and went on to detail some ego—boosting incidents that had happened at Culpepper—crazy bookstores. While her mother talked, Gretchen's mind wandered. She didn't mean to do it but... Rick again. She kept thinking back to their date last night. How passionate he was, how warm, how wrong she'd been about him.

  * * *

  Like a drug, he made her crave more and more and more..."Gretchen?" Oh! She snapped back into the conversation, feeling like a total hypocrite. Here she'd wanted her mother to call, and then as soon as she did, Gretchen was zoning out to fantasize about Rick. "I asked if you're enjoying your new job."

  As soon as she started to tell her mom about her work, she heard clicking keys on the other end. So her mother was typing something while Gretchen was talking to her. They were both terrible at this. "Mmm-hmm," she was saying, "mmm-hmm. By the way, have you worn the new suit your father and I got for you?"

  "Um, no, not yet."

  "Why not?" When Gretchen hesitated for just a second, her mom said, "It's a very expensive suit, you know."

  "I know. I really like it," Gretchen lied. "I'm saving it for a special occasion." Like maybe a masquerade ball where Gretchen went as a set of shoulder pads.

  "Mmm-hmm. Any interesting men at work? Oh, have you met Romeo Ramero yet? He's supposed to be quite the eligible bachelor, right? I know his last cookbook was twenty-two spots higher than your father's and mine on the USA Today list."

  "Sure, I've met him. I went to his house in the Catskills last weekend." Her mother gasped at that one, showing uncharacteristic emotion. "But actually, I went on a date last night—with his brother!" She couldn't help gushing a little.

  "His brother? That sounds promising," Florence said cautiously.

  "What does he do?"

  "He's a fireman." At that, Florence made a noise, basically the grumbling equivalent of "ick."

  "Actually that's how we met, it was funny—" Gretchen started to tell the story when her mother interjected.

  "Wait, do you mean a volunteer fireman, as in it's something he does to help out in the community, in addition to his real career?"

  "That is his real career," Gretchen said, feeling defensiveness surge in her chest. "This is New York City, Mom. They have a paid force." Please, who doesn't know that?

  "Oh." There was a pause, during which Gretchen sucked in a breath and waited. "Well, where did he go to college?"

  "Um... he didn't. He joined the Air Force instead." After a stint in jail—but why bore her with the details?

  "What? No college degree?" Florence said, appalled. "Oh, forget him."

  That did it. Normally Gretchen had an even temper with her parents—a simmering restraint—but her mom was pissing her off now. Yes, of course, her parents deeply valued education; Will was a dentist and Florence was a PhD, and yes, of course, Gretchen valued it, too. But still, there was nothing remotely inferior about Rick as far as she could see.

  Besides that, her mom was wrong. Gretchen couldn't forget him even if she wanted to, and she did not want to.

  "Don't be such a snob," Gretchen argued. "He's really smart.

  And I like him—a lot."

  "Great. Out of the two brothers, leave it to you to pick the one who's going nowhere," Florence muttered.

  "What are you talking about? He doesn't have to go anywhere—you couldn't do his job!"

  "And if he's a pilot, let me tell you, he's got a girl in every port.

  You'll end up being sorry in the end."

  "Oh, as opposed to dating a womanizing TV star, which is always considered a good idea," Gretchen fumed. "And he's not a pilot."

  "I'm not going to fight with you. Do what you want," Florence said coolly. "You will anyway."

  Gretchen thought how untrue that would've been when she was growing up, when she'd tried so hard to please her parents, even tried to use cooking to impress them, to give them a reason to be excited when they got home. But now, she knew with certainty, her mother was right.

  The call-waiting beeped, so Gretchen took it as her opportunity to end the call. "I've got to go, Mom. I'll call you next week or something."

  When she clicked over, her breath caught at the sound of her name. "Gretchen."

  "Hi," she said, smiling into the phone.

  "Hey," Rick said. "I can't talk long, but any chance you're free later?"

  "For what?"

  "For whatever."

  "Okay, why don't you come over," she said. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she warned herself not to make the same mistakes she'd made with the various guys she'd liked in the past. Don't be so available. Play the game; act aloof. But, for better or worse, her instincts won out. "How's nine o'clock?"

  "Good. You're probably getting sick of me by now, huh?" he added lightly.

  "Extremely," she lied. "Don't be late."

  Chapter 21

  That night Dana was out with Chantal and another girl from work; Gretchen had come home to a note saying she wouldn't be back till late. Perfect—she'd have Rick over for a romantic evening.

  Initially she'd been extremely tempted to make a key lime pie, which Rick had said was his favorite, but she didn't dare. She wouldn't jump in too fast this time, which was always her fatal mistake. Besides, Dana had warned her to wait at least four months before baking for a guy. According to Dana, guys had to earn that kind of gesture (with affection, consideration, devotion, take your pick), or they'd simply take it for granted. Gretchen had to agree—it was only logical. Anything in the cake, cookie, or brownie vein this early in the game reeked of desperation. After all, she barely knew Rick; he could still turn out to be a jerk.

  The stage was set for tonight. Thanks to Dana's housekeeping, the apartment was clean—though Gretchen couldn't say the same for her mind, filled with explicit thoughts of sweat and nakedness and Rick, of course.

  * * *

  He hated feeling guilty. Right now that, more than anything, was why he needed to see Gretchen. He felt shitty having gone into this thing with the intention of using her for information, of playing with her, because he'd cast her as some shallow opportunist.

  When she opened the door, a warm smile broke across her face.

  She wore a dark red sweater that dipped low, teasingly close to her line of cleavage. Her cheeks were bright and flushed pink, and all he wanted to do was grab her and hug her. And then pull the sweater off.

  "Come in," she said, leading him in, and he handed her a bottle of wine; as she walked to
the counter to set it down, Rick watched her move, that sexy swing of her hips. When she turned around to face him, he was still all the way across the room, so she urged him closer. "I'll take your coat," she said.

  "No, that's okay," he said, feeling a little on edge. He wanted to clear the air with her and get it out of the way. Maybe it was dumb as hell, but the truth was, he trusted her.

  "Want something to eat?" she asked, walking closer, and he crossed the room, coming closer, too, but carefully. "I have some homemade sourdough bread," she said, motioning toward the plate she'd set out, "and crab dip baking in the oven. It's almost ready." (Okay, technically she had baked but it didn't count against the four-month rule because this was real food, and hey, she had to eat.)

  "No, no, that's okay. I mean, it sounds great. I'll get to it, but uh..." He looked around, his chest tight. He wanted to get this over with, but it was tough with her looking at him like that. Blinking sweetly, innocently, openly..."Listen, there's something I wanna tell you."

  "What?" she said, still smiling at him. Then she sat down on the couch and patted the cushion next to her for him to join her. He knew if he sat there he might forget his purpose again and fall under her spell, get pulled to her like a magnet, led by his dick, by the sensual lure of her scent. She smelled like apple pie or something. He couldn't put his finger on it, but it was her skin, it was her. Christ, it was the way she was looking at him.

  When he didn't sit right away, when he faltered, her expression did, too. She got this crease in her forehead and he could tell she was about to ask what was wrong.

  "Look, the truth is..." he began, and went on to tell her about his real motive for asking her out and for taking her for coffee. How his brother was supposed to die, not his agent, how whoever was responsible most likely worked for TCN and was still out there, hating Brett. How Brett wouldn't go to the police because he was too chickenshit (Rick had paraphrased that), and how he'd asked Rick to help him sort it out.

  Rick left out the part about Brett's sexual relationship with Misty. He did trust Gretchen, but still... she didn't need to know that, and no matter what, he was still protective of Brett.