She stared at him, glaring in a way that meant trouble. Deep, dangerous, bad trouble—Tilly style. “Did a squirrel crawl up your butt and use your head to store his nuts?”
“Don’t be crass,” he snapped.
“Then don’t be stupid.”
She jerked away and limped off to stand by the windows overlooking the city. Her shoulders slumped. He knew from the furtive way she reached up to wipe her face that the tears were flowing.
Well, damn.
He hated to see women cry—it made him crazy and claustrophobic. His first reaction was to run away as fast as he could, but this was Tilly. The last time he’d made her cry he’d gotten a tattoo of a horse’s rear with the words “Yes, I’m a horse’s ass” on his backside. He didn’t plan on shelling out for another tattoo.
He sucked in enough air to float a zeppelin, let it out, and marched over to the woman he loved. “You want me to pull down my pants?”
She hiccuped and waved him away before reaching into her pocket for another tissue. Panic swirled in his brain.
It was one thing for her to get teary eyed over finding a dead woman, but not because of him. “I’m sorry.”
She whirled to face him and leaned against the deep windowsill with her tissues clutched in one hand. Jordan stared at her, stunned. She giggled so hard her mascara ran down her face. She wiped at it and pulled in a shuddering breath.
“You’re right.” She cleared her throat and waved her hand in front of her face to dry the tears. “Absolutely right.”
“I’m right about what?” He wasn’t sure he’d like the answer.
…
Tilly pulled herself up onto the windowsill and swung her feet back and forth while she studied Jordan. She knew her refusal cut him deep—deep enough to bleed. It was the last thing she wanted, but her heart stuttered and skipped at the idea of marriage. They practically lived together. However, there was more to her than her wild nights with a man like Jordan. She worked hard at fitting in with his life. Could he do the same? Could he take a little goading without blowing apart at the seams? She decided to let him stew in his own juices for a while for his ridiculous fit of jealousy.
“Hank and I have been meetin’ behind your back.”
“What?” He paled; his face flushed and grew hard.
“Yes.” She heaved a sigh. “You know dinner—the works.”
“The works?”
The only thing she could do was nod or break out into a fit of laughter.
He crossed his arms over his chest and raised one brow. “When was this?”
She stared down at her feet and decided Sarah could have every pair of high heels that she owned. Her feet ached as much as her heart. She’d hurt the man she loved and had to find a way to soothe the worry in his face.
“Last Friday.”
“I was out of town last Friday.”
“I know.” This time she let out a long plaintive sigh. “He came over and before I knew what happened…” The back of her hand went to her forehead in what she thought was a pretty good imitation of a “meller-drama”—as Ruby always said—heroine. She glanced up at him with one eye to gauge his mood. It was dangerous poking an angry badger, especially if said badger went by the name of Jordan Kelly.
“Okay. Okay. Cut the drama queen act.” He took her hands and gently set her on her feet. They let out a complaint by way of her toes, but her heart felt lighter when he smiled. “What did you guys do?”
She shrugged and ran her hands over his forearms. She’d close the small gap and nestle closer if a small army wasn’t trooping in and out of the hall. “He’s your best friend, I’m your girlfriend—”
He laid a finger against her lips to shush her. “You’re getting close to the big three-oh, Matilda, old girl—close to spinsterhood. I’ve got the perfect solution and a ring in my pocket.”
“Don’t push it.” She ground the heel of one shoe against the carpeting. “I’m wearing heels, slick. Nice, sharp heels.” Hot needles stabbed her arches. “My feet may hurt like the devil, but I’m willing put up with the pain to take out a couple of your toes.”
“I see orthopedic shoes and horn-rimmed glasses in your future.” He planted a quick kiss on the tip of her nose.
“Ah, the man lives dangerously.”
“Yes.” He wound his fingers through hers, and they strolled back to the bench. Or rather, she hobbled—he walked. “So why did you go out with Hank?” He pulled her down to sit next to him. He didn’t have to try hard.
“He came by with tickets to the Knicks game—”
His face dropped in dismay. “Oh, man.” He smacked his knee with the palm of his hand. “Crap, crap, crap. We’d planned to go to that game months ago, and I forgot about it.”
“Don’t worry. I filled in for you. Dinner was a hot dog and beer.”
He cast a glance in the direction of the prep kitchens. Hank’s voice could be heard giving orders and keeping the CSU team on target. “The two of you walk around like two dogs trying to decide whether you’re friends or enemies. That’s why the pally thing threw me.”
“We’re still figurin’ out how to accommodate each other. I don’t want to interfere with your bromance—”
“My what?”
“You know—you guys have been friends since junior high. It’s kind of hard to compete with that.”
“No, it isn’t.” His gaze skated from her face down to her breasts. He gave her a wicked smile. “You have great tits. He doesn’t. Big difference.”
“You are bein’ thickheaded.”
“I’m being truthful.”
“He’s your best friend.”
“And you’re the woman I want to ma—”
She placed a finger over his mouth to keep him from saying the m word. “We’re tryin’ to get along.”
He gave her finger a light nip and kiss. “He’s a player. Women can’t stay away.”
“I’ve got enough on my hands with you. He can find another woman to charm.” She yanked her hand away and gave him a slow smile. “Although we did stay up late talkin’. I ended up makin’ him some scrambled eggs and bacon at three in the mornin’.”
He snorted. “He’s used to my gourmet, kitchen-sink omelets. You’ll have to do better than plain bacon and eggs to impress him.”
“That’s not what he told me.” She looked upward and pursed her lips, waiting for his reaction.
“What?” His astonished response held a hint of denial.
“He said you put so much shit in the omelet that he can’t taste the eggs.”
“No. No. That’s not right. He comes over once a month for Sunday brunch and whatever sports are on TV—depends on the season. He likes those omelets.” Consternation twisted his handsome face. “He would’ve told me if he didn’t.”
“It was just bacon and eggs. Don’t get your Jockeys in a bunch over it.” She leaned back against the wall and toed off her heels. A rush of pain, akin to burning electric shocks, ran through her feet. She hissed at the sudden onslaught of agony that should’ve felt like heaven instead of hell.
He bent down and swung her legs onto his lap. She had to hold on to the seat of the bench to keep from falling off.
“What are you doin’?”
His fingers traced the reddened impression marks left by the strappy black torture devices. “Wow. Those shoes did a number on your feet.”
“Yes—ah—yes…” Her words drifted away on a combination of pleasure mixed with residual pain.
He worked around the ball of one foot, sending shivers of comfort and delight with each pressure point he touched. She didn’t care what he had in mind—she was in. “Have I told you that you have magic fingers?”
He dug a little deeper on her instep. She jumped at the electricity that surged up her leg. He let out the lust monkeys in spades.
“Maybe. I can’t remember.” He gave her a grin. “Refresh my memory.”
He kneaded her foot again and stared into her eyes with his famo
us brow raised in question. She’d be ragged with desire by the time he got done with the other foot.
She closed her eyes and bit her lip against the onslaught of sensations he wove with his hands.
“Do I have to bust you guys for lewd and lascivious behavior?”
Hank’s deep voice burst the sensuous bubble. Her eyes popped open to see him and Detective Crespo staring at her.
“I’m rubbing Tilly’s feet.” Jordan stopped the massage but kept his hands wrapped around her feet. “Her shoes were giving her grief.” He glanced up at the two men. “What’s going on?”
“Besides a dead chef?” The detective’s gray eyes narrowed. “Detective Tapper has filled me in on Juliette DuPres’s allergies.” He rubbed his hand through his grizzled hair. “I can’t say anything more than that. We’ll need to get your statements.”
“Of course.” Tilly wriggled her feet from Jordan’s lap and sat up. “I need to go to the locker room to get my high-tops. I’m not runnin’ around in those heels.” A glint of purple on the hem of her skirt caught her eye. It was glitter. “Well, shucky-darn, how on earth did I get purple glitter on my skirt?” She reached down to sweep it away. “Maybe I can just brush it off. This thing has to be dry-cleaned.”
“Stop,” Hank commanded. “Don’t touch anything.” He crouched at her feet and examined the glitter before he finally looked up at her. “I’m going to need you to take off your skirt.”
“What?”
“Now wait a minute.” Jordan stood and got between her and Hank. “That’s a little over the line—even between friends.”
“She may have evidence on her skirt.” Hank got to his feet and went into the prep kitchen. A moment later, he returned, followed by a female officer. “This is Officer Jen Bardwell from the evidence collection team.” He introduced them to a tall woman with an elegant face that could have been sculpted in ebony.
“Hello.” The officer gave them a bright smile. “I love your show.”
Jordan stood and held out his hand. “Thank you.”
The woman’s eyelids fluttered. “I mean Tilly—although your show is very…informative.”
Tilly had to hold back a grin at Jordan’s chagrin. He’d made it his life’s mission to keep a tally of who had the most fans.
“Hmm. Curious. Where’d the glitter come from?” Detective Crespo stared down at the hem of her skirt, where the small bits of glitter caught the overhead light of the hallway. “Picked it up, or left it behind?”
“Wait a minute. What has the glitter got to do with anything?” Jordan’s expression wasn’t hard to read.
Detective Crespo’s square visage grew void of any expression. His gray eyes became steelier by the second. “DuPres had purple glitter on her body, and there was a bit on the counter.”
“You’re way off base.” Redness flushed the slash of Jordan’s cheekbones. “I told you we can account for our time. We didn’t kill her. What sort of games are you playing?”
“He’s sortin’ out the facts. Aren’t you, Detective?” Tilly glanced over at Hank for help. “I did touch her. The glitter must have rubbed off when I checked her pulse.”
“I have to ask all kinds of questions to get to the facts.” Detective Crespo pulled his notebook out and scribbled for a few seconds. “You’d be surprised at what people let slip.”
Jordan’s blazing eyes should’ve roasted most people alive, instead, the detective turned away and went back into the prep kitchen.
Hank laid a firm hand on Jordan’s shoulder. “Let Detective Crespo do his job.”
The simple gesture defused Jordan’s building anger.
Hank turned to Tilly. “Officer Bardwell will escort you to the locker room and take the skirt back to the forensics lab.” He gave Jordan a look that said keep your cool.
Tilly stood. “Okay.” She smiled at Jordan. “I’ve got a change of clothes in my locker. It’s a real mish-mash of stuff. I’ll look like a perverted clown. Be right back.”
She took two steps and turned around. Anger still radiated from Jordan. It was clear she had to do something to take his mind off Juliette and the aborted proposal. “We need to stop by a hardware store before we go back to your place.”
Jordan frowned in confusion. “Why?”
“To buy a chandelier.”
Chapter Three
“Did you notice anything strange?” Jordan asked Hank as he watched Tilly walk away with the policewoman. The sway of Tilly’s hips and the way she swung her heels in her hands by the back straps made him smile. He couldn’t hear what she was discussing with her escort, but they’d obviously found themselves to be kindred spirits. Her whiskey-dark laugh made him itch to get her home and into bed.
She breathed life into him.
“Like what?” Hank frowned, but his eyes followed Tilly as well. “She seems fine now.”
“Hey, that’s my woman you’re checking out,” he hissed between his teeth to keep Detective Crespo from overhearing.
His friend’s scowl turned into a smile. “Don’t worry. All she talks about is you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The medical examiner’s office arrived, and the detective motioned them toward the prep kitchen. He stopped in front of Jordan. “Don’t go nowhere. I got a few questions.”
“I don’t plan on it.” Jordan sank onto the bench and leaned forward with his hands dangling between his knees. “I’m all yours.”
“Good.” Detective Crespo left.
Ten minutes later, he followed the gurney with Juliette’s body down the hall to the elevator.
Jordan wished he’d felt something for the woman, even the slightest twinge of regret. Yet she’d mauled his ego, criticized his manhood, and turned away from their short-lived relationship without a bit of remorse. His stomach churned at the grisly memory of her lying on the floor. She might have been a bitch, but no one deserved to strangle on their own tongue.
“You asked me if I noticed anything strange.”
Hank’s question brought Jordan back to the moment. It took a second for his mind to shift gears from watching a bagful of human remains to fitting together the puzzle pieces of Juliette’s death. It felt—off.
“You’re the mystery writer and a detective—you tell me.” He wanted to see if Hank had picked up on what had been bothering him all evening. Tilly’s questions kept playing on an endless loop. Where was the food Juliette ate? Where was her purse with her EpiPen? Shouldn’t she have had it nearby?
“I don’t have time for a game of twenty questions,” Hank muttered.
“What’s missing? Come on. Play along.”
Hank let out a sigh of exasperation. “I don’t know. It appears to be a case of accidental death by a severe allergic reaction.” He pulled off his latex gloves and threw them into the trash. “I’m sure you have some insight you can’t wait to share.”
“According to Tilly, Juliette was working on a bouillabaisse recipe that didn’t include shellfish.”
“Yes. I think you’ve mentioned it before. And?”
“Go into the kitchen and tell me what you smell.” He nodded in the direction of the prep kitchen. “It’s important.”
“You’re shitting me, right?” Hank’s blank stare added to his frustration.
The answer was so obvious. “The kitchen is clean.”
Hank gave an unconcerned shrug. “DuPres cleaned up after herself.”
“What kind of detective are you?” Jordan couldn’t believe how nonchalant his friend was over the death. He shook his head and rolled his eyes heavenward. “You don’t understand. She’s the type who wouldn’t dirty her hands with scrubbing pots. She’d leave it for the staff.”
“Okay. Tell me what’s bugging you.”
“Where’s the bouillabaisse?” His friend was so obtuse tonight. “There should’ve been a dish on the counter if she’d just eaten it. If her reaction was that severe, she wouldn’t have taken time to clean up. Everything is spotless. Check
the refrigerator. If the bouillabaisse is in there, well, I’m way off base. But I’ll bet you won’t find anything. My guess is if the bouillabaisse is gone—so is the trash.”
“You’re suspecting homicide?” Hank stared at him as if he’d grown an extra head. “Over a spotless kitchen?”
“There’s a lot of people that wouldn’t mind if she disappeared forever.”
Hank’s piercing gaze zeroed in on him. It was one thing to see him intimidate people—he’d been doing it since junior high. It was another thing to be on the receiving end. “Why do I get the feeling you belong in that group?”
“We had a thing.” Jordan waved his hand in the air as if the thing was unimportant. “Three days of mind-blowing sex, and then she cut me loose.” He pulled in a much needed lungful of air. “She was one nasty piece of work.”
“Ouch. You never told me about her.”
“Our parting wasn’t a warm, fuzzy moment.” The memories of Juliette’s words—words that belittled him as a chef and as man—still haunted him. “I didn’t tell anyone.”
“Not even Tilly?”
He grimaced and shoved his hands into his slacks pockets. He looked away from Hank’s scrutiny. Tilly had told him more than once—like earlier—how much she hated liars. Guilt washed over him and made it hard to breathe. The mixture of loathing and lost love still warred in his chest, and that made Juliette an obstacle he’d yet to hurdle. “Especially Tilly. She’s hard enough to nail down without past affairs muddying the water.”
“She knows you had a lot of women before her.”
“Juliette was different. She’s the reason I never got emotionally attached to another woman—until Tilly.” Spilling his guts to someone, even a person as close as Hank, was hard.
“You know, you would make a perfect suspect if you didn’t have a good alibi. You’ll still need to give a statement.” Hank nailed him with his unyielding stare. “The two of you found the body. The fact you had a relationship with the deceased might be relevant.”
“Damn. I knew you’d say that.” He propped himself against the wall and stared up at Hank. There was no denying he was in the middle of a mess if Juliette’s death was murder and not suicide or accidental. He prayed for suicide, but deep down, he knew better. He didn’t see her slipping up and popping a shrimp into her mouth, either. “Now I’m going to have to tell Tilly about Juliette.”
Murder Love on the Menu Page 3