“Everyone’s a comedian,” I groaned.
He chuckled. “Yeah, it’s one of my better qualities,” he said, coming forward and putting my hand in his. “Come on, Maggie. Let’s go inside. I’m starving and I know nothing would tickle your fancy more than feeding a hungry man.”
Amusement gleamed in his eyes and I found myself laughing as he dragged me through the front door and stopped in the middle of the kitchen.
“I’ll just make myself comfortable at the table.”
I propped my hands on my hips. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope.” He released my hand and patted me lightly on the butt before walking into the breakfast nook and dropping down into the nearest chair. I didn’t even want to think about the heat his hand left on my bottom.
“I don’t cook, Villari. Not unless you consider peanut butter and jelly a meal.”
“Throw some chips on the side and I’ll crown you the next Julia Child.”
Ten minutes later we were munching on dry sandwiches and washing them down with tall glasses of instant iced tea... another knack of mine. I had popped my last bite in my mouth when Villari started in on me. “So where were you off to today? Let me guess. Sightseeing? Shopping for your summer wardrobe?”
“You’re a funny guy, Villari,” I said, as I chewed around another thick, sticky bite. I grabbed my glass and poured the tea down my throat.
“Yeah, I’m a laugh a minute.” He dropped the last of his sandwich on his plate and leaned forward, staring me down. “Let’s do ourselves a favor this time, okay? Answer the question directly instead of following the circuitous route you’re so familiar with. It will save a lot of time and effort so we can actually enjoy each other’s company for more than a few minutes this time.”
Normally, I would have bristled at his tone, but right now, I felt like a giant emotional sieve, everything draining out of me in one large shake. The morning had been exhausting, and I realized that I simply didn’t have the energy for a fight. But pride was a funny thing. Even though I was more than willing to answer his questions, I wasn’t going to hand everything over on a silver platter. I’d always played my cards close to my chest, and this was no exception. Besides, why should I make it easy for the guy?
“What do you want to know?”
He ignored my less than enthusiastic response. “Just the simple things. I don’t have the manpower to put a tail on you, Maggie, otherwise I would have done so the day Elizabeth died, and definitely after the threatening phone call, but—”
“Don’t worry about the call.”
As I expected, his eyes narrowed and his lips thinned into two hard lines. “What do you know about the phone call?”
I couldn’t help but puff my chest out a little, not that there was much to puff. “I did a little old-fashioned detective work and learned the name of the caller.”
“Stop jerking me around, Maggie, and tell me what you know before I reach across the table and do something we’ll both regret.”
“You do know how to romance a girl, Villari.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” he replied sharply. “And now, there goes our few minutes of getting along.”
I held my hands up over my head in surrender and told him the story. I started with Hawthorne’s phone call, Cassie’s visit, and my trip to see Lindsay Burns. I spent the bulk of my time trying to retell my conversation with Lindsay as accurately as possible. Then I quickly wrapped up the whole story describing my brief encounter with Cassie’s weasel of a brother.
“By the time I got home, Villari, I was actually glad to see you.”
“Glad I could be of service,” he murmured distractedly. He was staring off into space, oblivious to my last statement. I guess I expected some type of “attaboy” sign of approval like a hearty slap on the back for a good day’s work. But the man never responded the way I expected. I could see the wheels churning in his head and I had the sneaking suspicion that he wouldn’t be nearly as forthcoming with information as I had been.
“What did you find out about her husband?”
It was like I’d never spoken. “Why do you think Preston told you about the cancer, Maggie?” he asked pensively.
“To hurt me.”
“Probably. But even that doesn’t really make any sense. Not since Elizabeth is already dead. Unless,” he mused, “he wasn’t just telling you, but warning you.”
“Warning me of what?”
“I don’t know for sure, but given his mercenary character, I’d guess it’s a ploy to get Elizabeth’s money.” Villari spoke in low tones, as though he were talking and working it out for himself. “Preston and Cassie will probably try to contest the will under the grounds that Elizabeth was dying. They’ll want to prove that the stress of her disease put her in a very vulnerable, shaky state of mind and that you took advantage of her vulnerability to get yourself put in the will.”
“Elizabeth was about as vulnerable as a pit bull. Besides, Hawthorne would never go for it.”
“They may not use Hawthorne. Just because Elizabeth was loyal to him doesn’t mean those two will follow suit.”
“God, this just never ends.”
Villari reached over and squeezed my hand encouragingly. “Don’t get discouraged, Maggie. It’s only a guess on my part, and if that’s their plan, Hawthorne will take care of the legalities for you. Besides, a lawsuit would only serve to tie the will up in court for a long time, and cost them money they don’t have, which means they’re stuck right where they are... for a while, at least. If we’re lucky, we may be around long enough to see Cassie get off her cute little butt and get a real job.”
“You noticed her butt?”
A slow grin spread across his face. “Hey, the girl may be a spoiled little princess, but she takes care of herself.”
“I’m thrilled to hear that.”
“Envious?”
“Not on your life.”
Villari tugged on my arm. A second later he had me in his lap, one hand on my hip, the other curved around my neck. “You know, Maggie, if you wore a pair of pants that were even remotely your size, instead of something big enough to line my garbage can, I might be able to tell whether your butt is cute or not.”
“Did I say I cared?” I asked pointedly.
He laughed, then drew my head down until my face was inches from his. “Honey, you’ll care soon enough when we end up tussling in bed,” he whispered before covering my protest with his mouth. “Naked,” he added.
This time there was no skimming or nibbling or nuzzling. This kiss was a straight shot of heat. His lips were hot and demanding. I held myself stiffly and tried to hold myself back. I did not want to repeat last night’s embarrassment. The last thing I needed was to get all hot and bothered again, only to have him pull back and play Mr. Chastity. But if he could feel my resistance, he didn’t say anything. He just kept on kissing me, relentlessly and tenaciously, until my body jumped ship and melted. Leaning into him, I felt a suspicious bulge under my thigh and I thought—quite smugly—that my baggy shorts must have something going for them after all.
We broke apart at the same time and smiled at each other.
“Well.”
“Yes, well.”
“What happened to the ‘integrity of the investigation’?” I teased.
“Who came up with that line of bull?”
I hit him in the chest. “You did and you know it. Last night, as a matter of fact.”
He held both my wrists together with one hand, slipped his free one underneath my T-shirt, and traced the top of my shorts. “Did I ever tell you my idea of a fantasy woman?”
“No,” I replied, enjoying the tantalizing feeling of his fingers brushing my skin as he continued his slow exploration around my waistband.
“Truth is, I’ve always been partial to tall, statuesque blondes. You know, five-foot-ten, one hundred and thirty pounds, with large breasts and honey-blonde hair that looks like spun gold.”
; “Then what are you doing toying with my pants?”
“Hell if I know. All these years I’ve been on the prowl for a long-legged, buxom blonde, and here I am groping a skinny girl with a mop of curly hair and a mind of her own. Go figure.”
“Before I break one of your ribs, you’d better tell me whether that was a compliment or an insult.”
“Neither. Just a statement of fact. The fact is, you’re adorable and I’m completely smitten with you. I’ve never met a woman who exasperated me the way you do. Nor have I met a woman that made me want to toss her on the bed and make love until morning comes and then start all over again. All at the same time.” Villari took one look at my face and chuckled. “I’ll be damned. I never thought I’d see the day when Maggie Kean was speechless.” Then he kissed me again, so completely and thoroughly that I thought seriously about taking out an insurance policy on those lips of his. They were priceless.
“Well, Maggie, it’s your call. We can do the right thing and wait until the investigation is over, or”—he slid his hand up toward my bra—“we can move to your bedroom and play doctor.”
It was a tough choice between brussel sprouts and a bowl of ice cream. “I make a heck of a nurse,” I purred, going for a kittenish sound that came out like something was jammed in my throat. But it seemed to work.
Before I knew it, Villari had scooped me up and was carrying me down the hallway toward the bedroom. I was swooning with the sheer romance of it all, ignoring the fact that he had to adjust the load in his arms a couple of times. Unlike the romance books that describe half-naked men carting their women off to bed without a hitch, lifting a hundred and some odd pounds in real life is more than a sack of potatoes. Except for bouncing my head against the doorjamb a couple of times, though, he managed to get me to the bedroom in one piece. I was pretty impressed.
“That was awfully manly of you, Detective,” I said as he dropped me on the bed.
“Honey, if you thought that was manly, you ain’t seen nothing yet,” Villari growled as he pulled off his shirt and tossed it on the floor.
I laughed, but as I watched him, the reality of what we were about to do started to sink in, and I felt myself getting a little nervous. It had been a long while since my last sexual encounter, and that relationship was nothing to write home about. I had a gut feeling that Villari didn’t do anything halfway and that sex with him would be lusty, the only time I’ve ever used that word, and out of control.
I wasn’t sure how I would handle all that virility and testosterone. Beneath my shorts was a pair of plain, white, high-rise, cotton panties. And my bra was just as modest. I didn’t see how I was going to titillate this man while sporting my no-nonsense lingerie. He was already complaining about my shorts and T-shirts; I didn’t know how he’d react to my underwear.
“What’s going on in that brain of yours?” he asked, sensing my hesitation.
“Not much, at the moment.”
He stretched out on his side and rested his head in his hand. “Maggie, something is always going on in your head and usually shooting straight out your mouth. Why don’t you let me in on the secret?”
I angled my head and gazed into his dark eyes, dark as tar. “I might be a bit nervous.”
“Nervous and excited or nervous and dreading?”
“Probably a little of both. Not only am I not the blond bombshell of your fantasies, but I’m also not exactly the, well...”
“Not the what?”
“Let’s just say I’m not the neighborhood Lolita.”
He cocked one eyebrow. “Now that comes as a real surprise. Here I was expecting you to hang from the chandelier and do somersaults on the bed and you’re telling me you’re just a regular ol’ gal.”
If I hadn’t seen the teasing sparkle in his eyes, I would have knocked him out cold.
“Maggie, if you’re not ready for this, we can stop.”
“It’s not that I’m not ready,” I stammered.
“Then what is it?”
I really couldn’t say for sure. Last night I’d been ready to tackle the guy and take him right on the front lawn, and now, when everything was perfect—the bed was large, the air was cool, and he was grinning that lazy grin that sent molten heat right down to my belly—I was backing away. Surely I wasn’t the kind of girl who would lead a guy down the path toward, uh, fulfillment, just to abandon him the moment he was reaching home.
“Maggie,” he urged, “talk to me.”
I simply didn’t have the words. I wanted to be with Villari, and I mean I wanted to be with him in the very carnal sense of the word. I wanted that piercing sweetness. I wanted to experience the intimacy that comes from tussling under the sheets with a man who was hard where I was soft. I wanted that rock-and-roll rhythm that catapults you up and over until you vibrate from the sheer freedom of it all.
But this guy scared me. He scared me a lot. He had walked into my life one day under the most horrible circumstances, irritated me at every turn, and threatened me. And I don’t just mean with jail. He threatened to get close to me, to break down the barriers I had carefully built around me, brick by brick. No one had broken through those walls except Elizabeth, who had slyly maneuvered herself into my life without permission and almost without my knowledge.
Now she was gone and I wasn’t sure I had the strength to let someone strip down my defenses again so soon. Especially someone like Villari.
I had questions about him that I couldn’t really articulate. The man was hardly subtle—when he went after something or someone he bulldozed everything in his path until he got what he wanted. And now that he was going after me, I felt cornered and more than a little frightened. My independence was hard earned and a long time coming and I wasn’t sure I was ready to chuck it out the window for someone who could stomp it flat without thinking twice.
Of course, all this introspection was giving me a headache. Chances are I was just riddled with insecurities about the typical womanly things. My body. It was nothing to crow about. I was skinny and out-of-shape—the anti-muscle poster child. When the clothes came off, every rib, knob, and bony elbow would be on full display, thanks to the unforgiving afternoon light. To make matters worse, lying there on top of the comforter, seconds away from testing the Big Bang theory, I watched in horror as goose bumps sprouted a clear trail down my arms. Nothing killed a mood quite like a rash of bumps.
“Cold, honey?” Villari asked.
I nodded. “Just a little.”
He pulled off his socks and tossed them over his shoulder before turning back to me. He stroked and rubbed his hand over my body, trying to warm me. That’s all it took. Just having him next to me was enough; my body heated up all on its own. He curved his arm around my waist and scooted closer, then rolled me over until I was lying beneath him.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. You?”
He threw me a lopsided grin. “I’m just fine. Can’t you tell?”
I rolled my eyes while the heat rose up my neck.
Villari took one look at my flushed face and burst out laughing. “Take it easy, Maggie. I was just trying to get you to relax a little. Sex is supposed to be fun, remember?”
That was exactly the point. I didn’t remember, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. My insides were churning with all kinds of feelings—some that I understood, others that I couldn’t begin to identify. I looked into Villari’s eyes, into those midnight-black eyes, and sighed. A whole well of emotions sprang to the surface as tears started trickling down my face.
Villari brushed the hair from my forehead. “Finding out about Elizabeth’s cancer shook you up a little more than you realized.”
“I guess it did,” I admitted, exhaling a deep breath.
“It’s going to come and go, Maggie, a little at a time. You have to expect that,” he said, taking the corner of the sheet and blotting my face. Propping himself on his elbows, he kissed the top of my nose and stared down at me.
“I ma
y not be the most sensitive man on earth,” he began, his eyes crinkling at the corners, “but something tells me this may not be the best time to pursue this particular area of our relationship.”
Perfect. My one opportunity and I blow it because of some inexplicable crying jag. All I wanted was an energetic roll in the hay, an uncomplicated romp in the sack. But when it was staring me in the face, I turned into an overwrought, hand wringing female. Next time we kissed, if that was even a possibility, maybe I could retain water and start my period.
Maybe I could rustle up some cramps, too.
Chapter Fifteen
“You never told me what you learned about Tom Mailer,” I said.
Villari sat on the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and one sock. With his rumpled hair hanging low over his forehead and large shoulders tapering down to his slim waist, he looked so delectable I was tempted to push him backward and beg for a second chance. I forced the idea out of my head, firmly squelching my more lascivious desires, and tried to focus on his answer, although the only response I was getting right now was a small crease between his brows.
“What’s wrong? Wouldn’t anybody talk to you?” I asked.
“Have you seen my other sock?”
I sighed. “Right there.” I pointed to the stray sock crumpled on top of my dresser, which was clear across the room from the bed. “You’ve got quite an arm there.”
“Among other things,” Villari said, retrieving his sock. He pulled on his shirt and tucked the tails into his pants. Glancing in the mirror, he raked his hands through his hair before turning around to answer me.
“You want to know what I found out about Mailer, right?”
I nodded, slightly irritated by how good he looked after an aborted roll in the hay. There was no longer any doubt in my mind that God was a man with a lousy sense of humor. How else do you explain the fact that Villari looked sexily disheveled while I looked totally unkempt, with a bad case of bed hair?
Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures) Page 18