Shepard transferred the bag from my shoulder to his. “I think he’s bluffing.”
“You gonna call?”
I had meant it as a joke, but neither of us laughed. It became something else in the silence that followed, crackling in the air between us.
Odd, I had never really counted on bonding over dead bodies as a potentially expediting factor for sexual tension.
If bonding over dead bodies is an inadvertent libido enhancer, evicting your stomach contents onto someone’s crotch is about as close as you can get to an anaphrodisiac.
Honestly I never got clear on exactly how it happened. All I knew was I was trying to crawl out of the car, unsure of which way was up or down or out, and this mostly because I was in mortal fear for my life.
Not because a fresh crop of assassins had shown up with new and inventive ways to end my life, but because driving with Shepard was like being strapped into some kind of amusement park ride designed to relieve you of your corn dogs and cotton candy.
He darted in between vehicles, took unexpected turns and detours, punched it to eighty only to decelerate to a full stop just in time to narrowly miss creaming a pedestrian. He had insisted it was in order to disentangle us from anyone who might have been following, but I suspected it was a subconscious bid to underscore the size of his thunderstick.
A thunderstick right beneath the damp ground zero on his well-worn jeans.
“I’m really sorry,” I said, trying to swallow my stomach back down my neck. “I have this inner-ear issue, and—”
“Let’s just get inside so I can get cleaned up.”
“Inside” was presumably contained in the nondescript apartment building on the outskirts of downtown Denver.
“I wouldn’t have figured you for an apartment guy,” I said, letting myself out of the car.
“I’m not.”
“So this isn’t your place?”
“Negative.”
“But I thought I was staying with you.”
“Women don’t stay at my home,” he said, retrieving both my duffel bag and his from the back seat. “I stay at theirs.”
“How terribly original of you.” I followed him up the sidewalk to the building’s well-lit front door. “So what is this place?”
“This is a safe house.” He punched a complicated code into the panel on the door.
“You’re going to write that down for me, yes?”
“No.” The panel beeped and the lock clicked open. We crossed the clean, empty lobby to the elevator, where Shepard plugged a black key card into the slot before pressing the key for the sixth floor.
“But what about a key card?” I protested. “I’m going to get one of those, aren’t I?”
“Also no.”
The elevator opened onto a long hallway, minimally decorated with sleek fake plants and boxy metal tables.
“But what if I need to get back in?” I asked.
“Back in implies you’d be leaving,” he said. “You’re not. Not the building. Not the floor. Not even the apartment.”
Well, he was just determined not to make this easy on himself.
I had kind of been hoping for a dynamic duo situation. Where I was the mind to his muscle. I planned, he enforced. Hell, I would even have been willing to let him play the plucky sidekick.
But if he was going to be so wildly uncooperative, I was just going to have to plan around him. Which, I already suspected, would not end well for him.
I mentally retraced my steps, mapping the hallways, the fire exits, and the stairwells in my head. I saw again the unblinking eye of surveillance cameras. Certainly not an ideal situation for what I had in mind, but there was nothing for it.
Sacrifices would have to be made.
He paused in front of a door halfway down the hall and punched yet another code into yet another panel. As hard as I tried to memorize the trajectory of his fingers, he was fast and sly, and seeing past the wall of his back was nigh impossible anyway.
The place was pitch-black, and when Shepard flipped the light switch, I saw why.
Blackout curtains covered every window.
The furnishing sensibility was spare and distinctly masculine. A couch. A coffee table. I found the bedroom equally sparse. A bed with a simple blue comforter. A nightstand. A dresser. A lamp.
The relentless sterility of this place made me feel twitchy and tense.
I walked toward the window, determined to let some sort of outside light into the bleak space, even if it came only from streetlights.
“Don’t,” Shepard barked. “If you can see out, they can see in.”
“You mean it isn’t one-way glass? I’m a little disappointed.” I withdrew my hand from the curtain like a scolded child, plopping down on the end of the bed, unsurprised to find the mattress about as yielding as a concrete slab. No doubt Shepard would cite something about it being best for lumbar alignment if given the opportunity. “So what happens now?”
“Now, I take a shower and change so I can head out and try to track down some of the people who were tracking you. You stay put.”
“Stay here? How is that any better than being at my apartment?” A little jet of panic shot through me. I didn’t like that I’d already begun to draw some measure of security from Shepard’s presence.
“Because, unlike your apartment, this place is perfectly safe. There’s no way to get up here without all the security information, and there’s no way to get into the apartment from the outside.”
“What about the windows?”
“Made from double-paned Lexan. It’s nearly unbreakable.”
“But what about my plans for the evening?”
“What plans?”
“I had a date.”
It took me a minute to realize that the strange growly, gaspy sound Shepard was making was laughter.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Why is that funny?”
“You haven’t had a date in two years.”
That this was exactly right did not a thing to quell the sudden onslaught of righteous indignation thundering through my veins. And yet, I couldn’t ask him how he knew this without confirming its veracity.
“Your shoe size is seven, your bra size is thirty-four b, you have a gym membership you’ve signed up for but never used, you have four unpaid parking tickets and one warrant out for your arrest, and you tend to leave your bedroom blinds open even when you’re changing.”
I was doing my best impression of a gasping fish, mouth opening and closing to very little effect, when Shepard added, “Officer Bixby did you a solid, by the way. He could of arrested you.”
“Could have arrested me.”
“We broke up, remember? I no longer find it cute when you correct my grammar.”
Shepard bustled efficiently from closet to dresser, retrieving a new pair of jeans, boxer briefs, and an identical black T-shirt. I suspected that if I allowed myself a peek in the closet, I’d find an entire row of them.
“I thought you didn’t live here,” I said.
“I don’t.”
“But you keep spare clothes here?”
“I keep spare clothes in a lot of places.” He moved like a man with somewhere to be. Which, of course, he was.
With growing dread, I realized he’d be leaving soon and I’d be locked down in an apartment with more security than Fort Knox. Safe, but alone.
Alone.
Solo. Not a soul to lie to.
I knew this feeling. I hated this feeling. I had avoided all manner of therapist’s couch just to make sure I never had to talk about this feeling.
And here it was, this lumpy, malformed bastard of a memory trying to crawl out of the tar of my subconscious. To tell me all about the childhood loneliness from whence it had sprung.
No way was I having that shit.
I kicked it down a mental staircase and tried to pick a fight with Shepard. Having him focused on what I was saying rather than what I was doing would be essential for what I had planned next.
/> “But I’m hungry,” I protested. “Why can’t I go out and get something to eat?”
“There’s food in the fridge.”
“I don’t know how to work the remote.”
“Google it.”
“I forgot my nightgown.”
Shepard stopped in the doorway to the bathroom and turned back to me, a small, strange smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He stripped off his black T-shirt and tossed it at me. “Sleep in this.”
It hit me square in the chest, sending up an intoxicating waft of male. Warm skin. Soap. Some kind of expensive aftershave.
Let those who have periodically accused me of an utter lack of self-control note that I didn’t hold the shirt to my face and huff it like a tube of superglue until after the bathroom door was partially closed.
He showered. I paced.
Opening the fridge, I found food to be a loose approximation of its contents. For a guy who didn’t live here, he sure seemed to have strong opinions about the comestibles on offer. Tupperware containers of poached chicken and greens. Brown rice. Fucking quinoa. Bottled water.
No dairy. No gluten. No dice.
I had to get out.
Returning to the bedroom, I sat down on the bed, watching as seductive tendrils of steam beckoned from a gap in the not-completely-closed door.
If you’ve ever seen cartoons where someone leaves a pie on a windowsill, you’ll know what I’m talking about. There the hapless dog is, minding his own business, when those ghostly fingers of steam hook him by the nostrils and float him right over to the unattended pastry.
Sitting on the bed with Shepard on the other side of a not-closed door was a lot like that.
He’d left his duffel bag unattended at the foot of the bed, the silly boy.
It took me only three pockets before I found what I was looking for.
“Bingo.”
I toed off my shoes and crept toward the bathroom door, the shower scene from Psycho unspooling in my head along with its attendant nails-on-a-chalkboard screeching.
The door creaked, but it didn’t matter. Shepard was a whistler.
It was when Shepard reached the chorus of “Rock of Ages” that I realized I had been standing there gawking while his face was tipped back into the shower’s spray, eyes closed.
There would never be a more perfect time.
“Shepard!” I shrieked at a decibel that would have given Janet Leigh a run for her money. “Save me!”
As I expected, his reflexes were exceptional.
He was out of the shower, eyes wide, searching for the threat with single-minded focus that completely blinded him to the handcuffs closing over his wrist and the metal bar on the shower door simultaneously.
Snick-snick.
Done.
Shepard looked at the cuffs. He looked at me. Looked at the cuffs again. Looked at me.
I smiled in a manner both winsome and conciliatory. Just because I had triumphed was no reason for poor sportsmanship, after all.
“Jane, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“At the moment? Admiring the view. But in about three seconds, I’m going to leave your wet, naked ass and bounce.”
“Very cute,” he said. “Now go get the key.”
“No can do.” Okay, my smile might have been the tiniest bit smug when I said this, so his lunging for me was somewhat forgivable. I managed to leap back in time to avoid being grabbed, but only just.
Pretty impressive arm span, that Shepard.
He could reach the towel rack and did, swathing his hips in terry cloth while I feigned utter disinterest in his man meat.
Insouciance, thy name is Jane.
“Listen to me, Jane. The safest place for you is right here in this apartment—”
“My mother is missing. And so far you, P-Ripple, Bixby, and all the rest of the men concerning themselves with this case haven’t turned up a goddamn thing. It’s my turn.”
“You can’t just hit the streets unprotected.”
“Who says I’m unprotected?” I pulled the Glock I’d found out of my bra. “Of course, it isn’t as big as Face-Gravy, but I suppose it will do okay in the meantime.”
“I thought you said Face-Gravy was your vibrator.”
“And I thought you said you had the biggest cock I’d ever seen. Imagine my disappointment.”
Lie.
Admittedly I wasn’t a connoisseur of cocks (a cockoisseur?), but Shepard’s had to be right up there. Well, right down there, at the moment. He wasn’t finding this whole handcuffing business nearly as kinky as I was.
“You have a great evening, okay?” I tucked his gun back in my bra and turned to leave.
“Wait!” The clanking of metal on metal marked Shepard reaching the end of his tether. Literally and figuratively, I was guessing.
“At least leave me my phone so I can call someone to get me out when you’re gone.” He enunciated each word. Slowly. Clearly. The verbal equivalent of counting to ten. All things considered, he was doing a pretty bang-up job of schooling the rage from his voice despite the intriguing shade of purple it lent to his face.
I pretended to consider his request. “Also no.”
His lunging for me a second time was my cue to book it.
Under a hail of not-so-subtle threats, I quickly changed into a black skirt, flat-soled sandals, and a tight knit top. Black skirt because that was about as fancy as I got and my best chance of blending into the place where Valentine would be supping. Flat-soled sandals, so I could hoof it if the need arose. And the tight top in hopes that a couple of inches of cleavage might distract at least a few people from a face that looked like it had been ridden hard and put away wet.
Thus prepared, I grabbed my bag, called out a friendly valediction over my shoulder, and slipped out the door.
Chapter Nine
Archard Everett Valentine wasn’t happy to see me.
True, I was technically trespassing as my name was not, in fact, on the guest list lorded over by the maître d’ with a terrible attitude and equally problematic pedophile ’stache. Nor had there actually been a rat in the coat check as some anonymous party had shrieked mere seconds later. And it might not have been in the best interest for the patrons at the table adjacent to Valentine’s to have their server’s tray mysteriously upend its contents onto their laps.
And yet, it was precisely this confluence of events that allowed me to reach Valentine before any of the staff could stop me.
Now I couldn’t be certain, but I suspected it was probably leftover resentment from the kidnapping thing that made him look at me like I had just shot a snot rocket into his glass of scotch.
Not his first, judging by the ruddy flush spreading over his high cheekbones.
“Anyone sitting here?” I asked, indicating the chair opposite his.
“Actually—”
“Good,” I said, roosting down. I was comforted that the seat was not warm, which meant his date hadn’t yet arrived as opposed to having stepped out to use the restroom. This might, conceivably, give me more time. I picked up the menu on my side of the table and perused it just for curiosity’s sake. Call it culinary window-shopping. “So. What are we eating?”
“Liquid diet.” Valentine raised his glass. “What I want isn’t on the menu.” His dark eyebrows lowered, eyes going both angular in shape and soft in affect all at the same time.
“Are you giving me the smolder right now? Is that what you’re doing? Because you can save yourself the squinting. I’m impervious to sexual contrivances.”
“Liar.”
“Well, yeah,” I admitted. “But not about that.”
“What is it you want, Miss Avery?”
“We need to talk.”
“Already?” He sipped his drink. “Usually women wait until after we’ve fucked to have this conversation.”
“If you’re trying to shock me, it won’t work. I already know what you’re into. I read the Grapevine.”
�
�The Grapevine.” Valentine snorted bitterly. “Believe me, Miss Avery. You haven’t the first clue what I’m into.”
“Well, that’s why I’m here,” I said. “To find out.”
“And I was so hoping our delightful conversation this afternoon might have been sufficient to satisfy your apparently insatiable need for contact with me for at least a few days.”
“It might have,” I said. “Had you not sent a pair of goons to murder me.”
Valentine’s hooded eyelids raised a fraction. “Say again?”
“Archard—may I call you Archie?”
“Absolutely not.”
“So, Archie, there I was, minding my own business, looking on with pride at perhaps the most expertly toasted grilled cheese sandwich in all creation, when a pair of guys broke into my apartment, dropped a bag over my head, and proceeded to argue about the order in which they’d like to fuck, torture, and kill me.”
“And what did they decide?” he asked, stirring his drink with his finger, bringing it to his lips to suck the liquid from it. A man who appreciated how the salt of skin can improve the flavor of anything licked from it.
Interesting thought, that.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re not taking this seriously?” I asked.
“You’re here, aren’t you? You lived to pester another day.” When he reached for his drink again, I snatched it from him and shot the contents. In my mind, it had been a lethally cool gesture. In actual practice, however, it left me coughing and blinking away tears.
“Not a scotch person?” he guessed.
“I’m totally a scotch person.” Lie. “I just . . . swallowed it wrong.”
“Most people do their first time.” Valentine signaled to the server, who darted over to the table as if yanked by an invisible leash. “I’ll do this again,” he said, pointing to his empty glass.
“And anything for you, miss?” the server asked.
“Nothing for her.” Valentine preempted me. “She won’t be staying.”
When the server was gone, Valentine leaned in closer, the candle between us lighting twin flames in his eyes.
“Miss Avery, had I sent someone to remove you from my way, you wouldn’t be sitting here right now. I have the means to pay for quality. Unlike whoever it is that obviously sent second-rate hired muscle to take care of a first-rate target.”
Private Lies (Jane Avery Mysteries Book 1) Page 8