“Someday you’ll understand. Maybe if you got to know Bobbi—”
“No!”
His hands flipped up. “Maybe that was the wrong thing to say.”
“Damn right it was.” I snapped my fingers. “Give me my keys. Where are my clothes?”
He took out his key ring and gestured. “Your things are in those suitcases and clothes bag. The shoes are in the tote bag.”
I looked toward the bags. We bought the matching set of Gucci luggage for a trip to Alaska and used them when we traveled together.
Putting down the bat, I reached for the keys. This had become a standoff, a tie, game called on account of pain. I just wanted it over. I walked toward the bags.
“Let me know if anything is missing. I was surprised she managed to get all your things into those bags.”
Anger pricked me like a sharp needle and I whirled toward him. “She packed my stuff?”
His response to my rising voice was a shrug. He approached the bottle of wine and glasses, oblivious to the anger that zoomed through my veins. “Yes...”
“You let Bobbi touch my clothes?”
His nod was a high, fat pitch over the middle of the plate. “Let’s have a glass of wine and I’ll take your bags to the car.”
My hold on the greasy emotional rope released, and I gripped the bat. As I slid into a hot boiling pot of anger, I swung for the fences.
Chapter Five
Saturday, 7:30 a.m.
The chiming doorbell jerked me from deep sleep. I blinked at the clock beside my bed. This wasn’t how I wanted to start the beginning of a new life. The Week from Hell that began with an earthquake and concluded with a midnight baseball battle was over.
The melodious chimes rang again. Who dared show up at my doorstep this early? I started to bury my head under my pillow, but...
I shot to a sitting position. Bad news came from early visits.
Mom! She lived alone in a townhouse in a retirement community in Pomona. It was supposed to be safe, but...
Delia? She’d boarded a plane for South America last night. What if it crashed?
Coldness seeped into my bones as I stumbled out of bed. I rubbed bare arms to shake the chill. Grabbing my terrycloth robe, I groped my way down two flights of stairs to the bottom floor entry.
The bell became persistent. Urgent, urgent, urgent, it called. Tightening the belt on my robe, I peered through the peephole and blinked.
What the hell? My mind refused to register what I was seeing.
Hank Patterson.
I dropped my head, breath catching as I grasped the truth. “Del, you evil witch,” I muttered. Her parting shot as she left town was to call my old boyfriend.
Brushing back my hair, I glanced down at my faded yellow robe. How could she do this to me? Checking the peephole again, I studied him. His full, pouty lips wore a scowl, serious blue eyes intent on the bell. He shifted, leaned toward the door and pounded on it. The quick move and loud noise startled me and I emitted a cry.
“Kimberly?”
Had he heard me? I clapped my hand over my mouth and held my breath.
“Kimberly? I need to see you.”
Delia must have come up with a tall tale to get him here, but he didn’t look pleased. Maybe she told him I was suicidal after my breakup with Rick.
Fine, let him see me without makeup, with my hair a ratty mess. In an act of defiance toward Delia, I yanked open the door. Let him see I was okay, even if I was a disheveled disaster.
“What are you doing here? Is this some kind of sick joke?”
For a second my harsh greeting knocked him off balance. “Are you okay?”
“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”
I stared up at all six-foot-two of him. Oh, hell, I’d made a stupid mistake. Here I was, looking my worst. And he looked good. Oh, so damn good. As crisp and clean as a summer morning. Ebony hair neatly combed. Eyes as clear as a deepwater lake. A leather bomber jacket emphasized wide shoulders, while his clinging polo shirt outlined the flat lines of his midsection. I’ll bet he was as hard as ever, a six pack of abs before the term grew stylish. Black jeans showcased his long legs. A strange heat fired up my lower inner regions. This guy could still ignite my female hormones.
He cleared his throat and attempted a smile that only made me more aware of his masculine appeal. “May I come inside? I need to talk to you.”
I brushed aside a stray strand of hair. I didn’t like anyone to see me without makeup. Especially Hank. I should greet him in full female armor—clingy dress with a low cut neckline and my face in flattering war paint.
“Do you know what time it is?” I turned my irritation on him. I didn’t know if I was angry at myself for answering the door or at Delia for instigating the awkward meeting. “It’s seven in the freaking morning.”
“Sorry to disturb you, but this is important.” Was that a hint of softness in his voice? He’d often teased me for my bitchiness before noon. Mr. Macho seldom spoke in this gentle tone. He was all hard police jargon or manly swagger. “Official business.”
Official business? Why would the Mira Loma police chief pay an official visit to me on Saturday morning? I stepped back and opened the door. Looking beyond him as he crossed the threshold, I expected Delia to leap out and wink before running off on her trip. But the driveway held only Hank’s black police sedan.
I turned to lead him upstairs, but still wobbly from sleep, I nearly tripped on the shoes I'd removed when I arrived home the previous night. I frowned at the dark dots staining my hot pink satin pumps. The latest from Dior and I’d never be able to wear them again.
From behind me came the sound of Hank’s quick intake of breath.
I whipped around. “What?”
His gaze was pointed at the ground, but he jerked up, eyes narrowed. Their blue depths bored into me as though searching for something. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”
“Too late, cop.” I adopted the sarcastic tone I’d used when he got that grave look. “You woke me, and I’m curious about this ‘official business.’ Come up, and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
I was aware of him behind me as we climbed the stairs. I could sense tense energy emanating from him. I wished I had eyes on my backside. Was he noticing the way I moved? He once claimed that watching me from behind was mesmerizing. Could my wiggling tush still tantalize him?
Hank had never been in my current home and he paused at the top of the stairs. I could imagine what he was thinking. The beachside townhouse once belonged to a TV star who had it custom built when he was on top of the ratings world. I got it for a song when he had to pay taxes on income he neglected to report.
The house was three stories of glass in front. Its top two stories offered a glorious view of the ocean a stretch of beach away. The bottom floor housed my office, a private, walled-in patio and a two-car garage. This middle level kept me above a walking/biking path and the prying eyes of strolling beach goers. It consisted of a large open room with the living area taking up the full width of the house. The dining space and kitchen were grouped along the back wall with a wide granite counter providing separation.
“Nice place,” Hank said, looking toward the windows. “Much better view than the back of a mall, which is what I see from my front window.”
I could imagine how much better the view must be. An anchorwoman made more money than a police chief. Excessive salaries paid to broadcasters versus the low pay of public servants had been the source of one of many arguments near the end of our relationship.
With a wave toward the kitchen, I started toward the flight of stairs that led up to my third-floor bedroom. No way could I continue our discussion in this horrible condition. I hadn’t even brushed my teeth.
“Make yourself at home. The coffee pot is ready to go with the flip of a switch. Mugs are in the cabinet, and the TV remote is on the counter in case you need company. I’ll be right back.”
In my bedroom, I removed my robe and started to pull on a si
lk lounging robe. I stopped—too suggestive. I needed something stylish but simple. Feminine, but not forward. I chose a long multi-patterned jersey skirt and cashmere sweater, the perfect outfit for lounging at home. Clingy enough to show curves, but informal enough to say, so what?
I smiled at the mirror and twisted my hair into a thick dark knot and tied it at the back. What waited below was a dance with an old partner. Would it be a waltz—lyrical and lilting? Or a jittberbug—frenetic and lively? With the old Hank, it would be a tango—sensual, seductive. This time it would start slow, each of us gauging the moves of the other, like new partners.
I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and touched it up with foundation to hide wrinkles—where had they all come from overnight? I applied a hint of shadow to bring out the hazel in my eyes and finished with a delicate hint of mascara.
Hank stood ramrod straight beside the wall of windows, staring toward the ocean, coffee mug in hand as I walked down the stairs. He gave no indication that he heard my approach.
My cell phone on the kitchen counter beeped as I reached the bottom. I picked it up but he held up his hand.
“Wait. You have a number of messages, but I think I know what they’re about.”
I glanced at the phone. It blinked with the number 24. Had Delia tried to let me know what she was doing? I turned off the phone after leaving her a message on my way home. As I watched, the message number popped to 25. I tapped a button and caller ID identified TV8 as the source.
I put down the phone and poured a mug of steaming, dark coffee. When we were together, Hank taught me to like it strong.
“What can I do for you, Chief?” Out of habit, as I came around the counter, I flipped on the small TV and muted Gwen’s nasal voice.
“Let’s sit down.” He pulled out one of my molded dining chairs.
I followed his lead and seated myself at the glass table. My furniture was Swedish and ultra modern—glass tables, black leather chairs and sofa, blond wood accents. Very clean lines, very rigid. Delia convinced me to buy it, but I regretted the purchase. It might be chic, but it was also damned uncomfortable.
Hank showed no sign of discomfort as he settled at the head of the table. My home phone rang sharply, and he reached across the table and put his fingers on mine, a delicate touch. “Wait.”
His fingers were warm and I responded with a gentle smile to let him know I’d forgiven him for waking me so early.
“That’s the station ring, and I’m only taking calls from Alan, my news director, since I worked last Sunday. What brings you here so early?” I lifted the mug to my mouth, meeting his eyes across the top.
He drew a deep breath, withdrawing his hand. “Kimberly, I’m sorry to tell you, but Rick Wells was found dead at his wine shop this morning.”
Huh?
My brain was fuzzy so the words took a minute to register. I placed my mug carefully on the table so coffee didn’t slosh, though my fingers quivered.
“Say that again.” I sought to regain my equilibrium, which burst around me like a popping bubble. As an anchor, I was used to receiving bad news and masking any reaction as I repeated it on air. I prided myself on never losing my cool, but looking at Hank’s serious eyes, I found myself on the edge of an implosion—of laughter.
I’d compared this meeting to a dance and music soared in my head. So that’s what this was! A dance full of surprises and wild movements. I should have kept my hair down, because I felt like tossing it wildly.
Who was he kidding? Rick, dead? Delia had done this. What was she thinking—cheer up Kimberly by sending Hank the Hunk as messenger to tell me the Weasel was dead? Toooo delicious. A giggle burbled from my throat. I clapped my hand over my mouth.
Hank played his role perfectly. Totally deadpan. I didn’t know he was this good an actor.
“Are you all right?” His eyes were filled with what? False concern?
I swallowed the laughter that threatened to erupt. “This is Delia’s doing, isn’t it?”
His gaze never wavered and his brow furrowed. His look appeared too serious for a joke, and yet... Delia had probably reacted to the babbling message I’d left about Rick’s final treachery.
“Kimberly, I can see this is a shock, but he is dead.”
What if it wasn’t a joke?
“Heart attack?” I thought of Rick’s disheveled appearance the previous night. It would serve him right if screwing the Bimbo had killed him.
“We think he was murdered.”
That did it. All trace of doubt was gone, and a laugh burst forth, bordering on hysterical. “I should have known! Men don’t die of natural causes when they’re marrying young chicks. Naturally he was murdered.”
Delia had thought of everything—except the timing. She should have let Hank wait a couple of hours instead of having him show up when I looked like crap.
“Are you all right?” A startled look shot across his face. Hank wasn’t the sort to lose his equanimity, but he looked perplexed.
“Wait!” I waved my hand. “Was he shot? Body washed up on the shore?” My motions grew more frantic as I fought to jerk him out of his serious mode. “Or was he beaten to death? Pounded to a pulp with a bottle of Dom Perignon? Or maybe his prized possession, that damn bat? It’s only silver-plated, you know. And wow, you’re the person bringing me the news?” I chortled at Delia’s thoroughness. Sooner or later, he would drop this act. I was dancing now. Freestyle, bold, theatric!
Delia had done me a favor. I wouldn’t have called him, and he looked sooo good with those thin wisps of silver feathering the edges of his dark hair. His chiseled face was leaner than it had been ten years ago, but it suited him. And those pouty lips—god, what he could do with those lips besides fake murder announcements.
The lips moved. “I know this is a shock.”
“Not at all. Are you here to help me dispose of the body? Or do I need to find a reasonably priced thug?”
He shot to his feet so violently the dining table shifted and coffee sloshed onto the polished top. His blue eyes transformed to a glacial glare. “I don’t think you should say any more. You need to call a lawyer.”
My next bout of laughter caught in my throat as Gwen’s muted picture flashed to a shot of Rick on the TV screen. The snapshot was familiar—until yesterday it had been tacked to the bulletin board in my office. My skin prickled, and my cheeks grew hot. Below the picture, a caption read, “Wine Shop Murder.”
Black spots dotted the backs of my eyelids. My mouth moved, but the words lodged in my windpipe. As I jerked around to see Hank’s startled face, the dance music faded, and the world around me dissolved into blackness.
Chapter Six
“Kimberly?”
I blinked, my eyes unfocused, as the room swam about crazily, forming spinning geometric figures. Slowly, the chalky ceiling and a row of gray skylights, two floors above me, settled into clarity.
“Kimmie?”
How long had it been since someone beside my family or Delia called me that?
Hank’s face floated into view. Curious? Concerned? At least his eyes no longer carried that hint of accusation I’d seen before darkness claimed me. I must have fainted. When was the last time that happened?
Never. I was stretched out on the hard leather sofa. Had he carried me here?
Hank kneeled on the rug beside me. A gentle hand stroked my hair. “Are you okay?”
I swallowed hard, trying to remember what caused me to faint. A joke about Rick. No, no joke. He said Rick was dead. So had the TV. Confusion fluttered inside me as fear gripped my middle in a tight vise.
Not simply dead.
Murdered.
Had I heard that right? I brushed my hand across my face to clear mental cobwebs. This was no movie shootout, no baseball game, no dance sequence.
This was real.
I struggled to sit up and gentle hands assisted me. His palms rested on either side of my ribcage, holding me upright. My gaze focused on Hank. His mouth was moving, b
ut all I heard was a vicious buzzing in my ears.
Pay attention.
“We don’t have a cause of death. Perhaps beaten.”
My hands shook. Rick was dead. Murdered.
Licking my parched lips with a cotton ball of a tongue, I tried to speak, but nothing emerged. An inner blizzard took possession of my body, freezing my insides all the way to my bones. I shivered, folding my arms together across my chest.
“Here.” He pulled off his leather jacket and wrapped it around me.
His warmth remained, and I burrowed into the jacket, hoping for transference of its heat. The familiar scent of sandalwood soap wafted up to me, a disturbing reminder of the past, but it didn’t bring pleasure. My world spun at a topsy-turvy angle as my vision blurred and sharpened, expanded in length and reduced in shape, like I meandered in a crazed funhouse faced with distorted mirrors.
He squeezed my shoulder. “Would you like a glass of water? Or I could put something into your coffee.”
I cleared my throat and words pushed out in a hoarse whisper. “Something strong. The bar’s at the end of the counter.”
Hank left my line of vision. Words blazed in front of me, giant red letters scrawled across the windows.
Murder!
I shook my head to clear the ghastly view. This couldn’t be true. I’d seen Rick...when? Hours ago. I didn’t want to think about the messy scene I’d left in the wine shop. We had a horrible argument and I emerged feeling like I’d been through an emotional meat grinder.
At that moment I wanted him dead. I wanted to bash him with the baseball bat he nagged me about or strangle him with that damned diamond pendant he wanted back. Instead I got into my car and drove away, driving through a rainstorm of tears.
My silent wish had been granted by some genie with a wicked sense of humor. Joking about about killing him during a drunken binge was one thing. The actual occurrence, well, that was something else. Something scary.
“Do you want me to call someone? Delia?” Hank returned and held out my mug.
The scent of liquor rose along with the strong smell of coffee. He sat on the sofa beside me, not relinquishing the mug. Together we lifted it to my lips and I sipped gratefully, letting the warm, potent liquid open my parched throat. The liquor blazed a hot trail through my icy insides, but it didn’t thaw me much.
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