“So,” Bobbie Faye said, “do you keep any weapons in this place? Because I am feeling an extreme need for weapons this morning.”
Nina was pretty sure she heard Cam in the background. “Obviously you haven’t looked in the exercise suite.”
“Exercise? Why would you keep . . . oh. Don’t answer that. Don’t you have Italian men to handcuff or something?”
“Already done. And I’m heading home, so I’ll be on a plane for a while—I’ll call you when I hit New York. Try not to blow up the state before I get there—I want to move some of my art to a safe place.”
“One of these days, you’re going to call me and I’m going to tell you that absolutely nothing is going on, everything is quiet, and people aren’t yelling at me.”
“Sure, B. And when you do, I’ll know that they are treating you very nicely in the padded cell.”
Cam peppered her with so many questions about yesterday, Bobbie Faye wanted to kick him, but she’d learned her lesson: no kicking big things without her boots on. Right then, she was barefoot, which was the only damned thing that saved Cam’s shins. She plopped down on the sofa and stalled on answering—as much to annoy him as to take a moment to remember that Punching Big Cops was a Bad Thing. Even if he was an ex-boyfriend. Not only was he being a cop, he was being a jerk cop, using his interrogation tone and cutting off her attempts to ask him what he’d been up to in her trailer. He grew agitated with each ensuing detail, so she gave him only the minimum highlights of the day’s activities and the search for the diamonds. He didn’t need to know about Marie’s day planner note.
“So you’re helping Francesca? Are you nuts? What am I talking about?” He threw his hands up, and paced in a circle. “You practically have the label Crazy, Inc. trademarked.”
“And I’m getting it tattooed on my ass, too.”
“You don’t even like the woman. She always competed for everything you had, all through school.”
Bobbie Faye didn’t want to get into the whole “Francesca’s family could get killed, and by the way, they’re my extended family, too,” since she’d never explained that connection to Cam before. “Francesca competed with everyone, Cam. I mean, holy geez, with a dad like Emile, she learned competition from birth. Besides, she never really went after anything I cared all that much about.”
“Yeah. Got it. Thanks.”
“You know what I mean. You hated her. You don’t count.”
“And the warm and fuzzy just keeps on coming.”
“Well, gee, Cam, the next time you barge in to announce to me what an idiot I am, I’ll be sure to dial the decade back to the fifties and—what the hell—I’ll have some tea and crumpets and a nice side dish of Don’t-Mind-Me, I’m-A-Doormat disorder waiting for you while I tie my apron on. Now, if that’s all you want, I have diamonds to find.”
“Where were you Saturday night?”
“Why?”
“Just answer the question, Bobbie Faye,” he barked. He paced away from her, fighting his temper. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, as he usually did with a headache. “Can’t you ever just answer a damned question?” He looked like crap, from the bloodshot eyes to the rumpled slept-in look of his clothes.
With his arm bent and his muscles flexed, she realized again how sexy Cam was. Taller and lankier than Trevor, at six-four, he intimidated a lot of people, particularly with that cop glare he’d perfected, and he was an unusually natural leader, both on the football field and off. He had always been sexy to her, even when he was a gangly fourteen-year-old to her scrawny twelve. But she also always saw the guy she’d grown up with. The guy who’d let her drive (and, oops, wreck) his first car, the one who would have never admitted, in a million years, that he liked the movie E.T. She especially noticed his biceps as he stood there, and how his sweaty shirt plastered against ripped abs. Oh, God. She was a bicep and abs junkie. She was going to have to quit, cold turkey, because look where it got her: one guy who’d conned her into complete humiliation, another one who was determined to continually berate her for everything she’d ever done wrong. She probably didn’t even breathe right. So that was it. AA. Abs Anonymous, here she comes. She wondered if there was a patch for that.
“I was home alone,” she finally answered when he’d leaned in, about to ask again.
“All night?”
“Well, yeah.” He’d been demanding in his tone before, but now Cam verged on belligerent.
“Alone?”
“Cam!”
“Well? I have to know. Were you alone?”
“What in holy hell crawled up your ass and died?”
Fifteen
“It’s police business, Bobbie Faye.” Cam’s voice hammered the air and echoed off the loft walls. “Yes or no, were you alone?” He watched her carefully as she leaned forward, confusion spreading across her eyes, and her robe fell open and oh holy hell, there was her cleavage spilling over next-to-nothing pjs and he had to look away.
“Yes. Alone. What’s going on?”
“Is there anybody who can confirm you stayed home? Was Stacey there?”
“No, she spent the night at Janie’s down the street. Did something happen Saturday night?”
He breathed in and out a minute, his gaze fixed across the room on a plant by the window, pushing away the image that open robe had seared in his mind. It reminded him, too much, of weekends they’d laze around, barely bothering to dress. “Yeah,” he finally said, “something happened.” He couldn’t exactly tell her that she was now a suspect in the murder of the jeweler, and he wasn’t about to tell her about the casings he’d found or, dear God, the surveillance footage Benoit hadn’t turned in yet. He’d already made one lapse in judgment, had already bent rules he’d sworn never to bend, much less break. Giving her details of an ongoing investigation where she was the suspect? Wrong. Plain and simple. “And you’re sure you don’t have anyone who can confirm you were there all night?”
“No. No one. It’s not like I go home to the male equivalent of Winna, so what do you expect?”
She said it so low, so quietly, but certainly not calmly, and he couldn’t look away. Why in the hell hadn’t he thought about the fact that everyone that gossiped to him about her would also make it a point to fill her in on every single damned thing he did? He knew if the Winna thing kept going, he’d eventually mention it to Bobbie Faye. Not that she cared, he knew, because if she cared, they wouldn’t have broken up. But he’d planned . . . hell, he didn’t know what he’d planned. He knew he hadn’t thought he’d be sitting across from her, while she sat in a robe and skimpy pjs, with a (if rumor was true) rogue agent in the other room, doing God knows what, having this discussion on the heels of her being a suspect in a major murder case.
“I don’t expect anything from you, Bobbie Faye.” His tone was so cold, he might as well have ice-picked her.
“Obviously.” Freezing temps right back at him.
He should shut up. He should get up and leave, since he’d gotten the answers he needed. He should stand up right fucking now and walk out that door.
“You know,” he said, his voice hard and cutting, “that’s what happens after you leave a person. They move on.”
An utter look of shock played across her green eyes. She leaned forward as if a little gut-punched, and he didn’t know what she wanted from him. To never date anyone else while she blithely went on with her life? To always be that guy she rejected, pining away? The one she kept as a backup plan? To hell with that.
“You . . . you’re trying to say that I’m the one who left?”
“Of course you left.”
She stared at him like she was seeing him for the very first time, and something tingled on the back of his neck, something that told him the picture had just shifted a bit to the right, but hadn’t clicked quite into place, and she started shaking her head in disbelief. Then she chuckled, but without any mirth or joy. No, it was more along the line of total incredulity.
“That,” she said,
hopping up and yanking the front door open, “is just like you. How someone can be as good a detective as you are and still be blind as a freakin’ bat is flat beyond me. Now you got your answers to your questions. You can leave.”
Benoit approached the antique shop, reaching for the door handle when he heard Reggie O’Connor say, “So, Benoit, you’re looking good.”
He turned to face her, wowed by her bright red low-cut shirt, just the right amount of cleavage for her job as an on-air reporter, and her long hair curled in messy waves that looked natural. She beamed a perfect, blinding-white toothy smile and if he hadn’t known her reputation for being a cutthroat reporter, he’d have immediately asked her out. Or given in one of the number of times she’d propositioned him. But he wasn’t completely insane. Dating Reggie would be a bit like dating a piranha; it wasn’t a matter of if you’d be eaten . . . just when.
“Aw, chère, you say that to everyone. Might as well cut to the chase.”
“Benoit, sugar, one of these days, you’re gonna realize I will be the best thing that happens to you. But right now”—she flicked a hand and Benoit caught a subtle signal and realized her cameraman was standing off to the side, rolling—“I want to know what’s the story about how Bobbie Faye has been caught on tape shooting our jeweler vic?”
It was a damned good thing he’d played poker for most of his life; he feigned surprise and leaned in to her a little. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, chère, but this sounds real interesting. Where’d you hear this?”
“Apparently, Mr. Beauregard told his wife, who told her sister, who called her ladies group at her church, and it pretty much spread from there. Mr. Beau said you have the only copy. Care to comment?”
“Now, chère, you know I don’t comment.”
“Not even for your friend, who looks like she gunned a man down in cold blood?”
“You have a good day, now, Reggie. I like your shirt.”
He stepped inside the antique shop, ignoring Reggie’s swearing under her breath; he knew Reggie’s boss would love to air something—anything at all—on this story. It had ratings written all over it. If Reggie could get someone to comment, she’d run with the story live and there wasn’t going to be a helluva lot he could do about it. Once it became officially public, he’d have to log the DVD footage (and the original hard drive) into evidence and he could just imagine the DA’s delight at finally getting to press charges against Bobbie Faye.
Cam strode past Bobbie Faye and took the corridor to the garage area where Nina stored her cars. He replayed the argument, especially Bobbie Faye’s parting shot, and ran slap into Francesca, who nearly fell off her stilettos onto her flaming pink ass. He caught her and averted his eyes from the micro-mini that should have required him to have an ob-gyn license, and he sure as hell didn’t want to encourage Francesca. In high school—when everyone else knew he was nuts about Bobbie Faye and they were best friends and he hadn’t figured out how to change their status without ruining the friendship—Francesca’s version of “flirting” had been to show up in his bedroom every weekend of one summer. Naked. In his bed. He finally figured out she was conning his youngest brother into leaving Cam’s window unlocked, but locking it didn’t seem to give her the message—she just switched to waiting for him after the summer football practices.
“Oooooh, Cam,” she cooed, her voice dropping an octave to a sultry whisper. “You’re single now . . . I’m single now . . . you wanna catch up later? Maybe have some drinks? I mean, after I help poor Bobbie Faye with her makeover and some other stuff?”
“Oh hell no,” Bobbie Faye said from behind Cam, and he heard her slam Nina’s door shut. He distinctly heard the lock click.
“No thanks, Frannie.”
“It’d be fun.” She pressed a well-manicured nail lightly into his chest and started to stroke downward. “We haven’t caught up in a long time.”
He caught her hand and pressed it away from him. He tried to pull back his anger and frustration with Bobbie Faye to keep it from spilling over. “No, Frannie.”
Her eyes shone a little bit, and he felt like he’d just kicked a puppy. “Well, if you change your mind.” She smiled.
As she walked toward Nina’s door, he turned back to her and asked, “By the way, how did you know where to find Bobbie Faye?” He was certain his ex hadn’t called Francesca, even though Bobbie Faye was trying to help her—Bobbie Faye’s patience with Annoying, Unlimited was about as thin as an amoeba. Nina’s physical address—her newest physical address in an everchanging list of homes—wasn’t listed. Cam had the security code only because Nina wanted one cop on the force to know it when she was out of town.
“I followed you, silly,” Francesca said, and she gave him the little cheerleader wave as she pranced toward the door.
* * *
From: Simone
To: JT
There was another call from Italy? We can’t get a trace?
* * *
* * *
From: JT
To: Simone
Italy’s only a guess, since the signal is bouncing off satellites like crazy. Someone has something pretty high-tech to block our tracking software. It’s as good as ours.
* * *
Ce Ce stirred the concoction in the glass bowl very carefully, watching the clear liquid thicken into a jelly consistency. She glanced around her workroom and noted (for probably the hundredth time) that all of the talismans were hanging in their proper places: rosemary on the north wall, thyme on the east, sage on the south, and mint on the west. She’d become a little obsessive about the placement of the talismans ever since Monique had traded one out for a rubber chicken as a joke, and the three love spells Ce Ce had concocted after that had had disastrous results. (Although the banker who started the chicken farm seemed quite happy.)
The worn butcher block countertop where Ce Ce worked had been sprinkled with her own mixture of primrose, powdered olive, and crushed beeswax. She’d mixed the first set of ingredients the night before (thank goodness the berries were in season) and had set the bowl out beneath the full moon to absorb its powers. To this mixture, she added powdered lodestone, hematite, sea glass, and then aloe. She tried to ignore the incessant knocking on the door and Monique, on the other side, imploring Ce Ce to let her in.
“I won’t mess up this one, I promise,” Monique pleaded, as she hiccupped. The hiccups told Ce Ce her pudgy redheaded friend had hit her hidden flasks again.
“No way, honey. You just wait out there. I’m almost done.”
“What do you want me to do about the prayer group?”
“The what?” Ce Ce’s head whipped up from the bowl to the door; she couldn’t stop what she was doing to let Monique in—the timing of the addition of the last two ingredients was critical.
“Miz Maimee’s back and now she has her prayer group with her. She says God has called her to the Glock counter until you sell her one. And her prayer partners are laying hands on anyone who moves on that side of the store.”
Ce Ce eyed the mixture in her bowl, judging it time for the lavender as she called out to Monique, “Just let ’em be, honey.” The last thing she needed was Maimee and her group even more upset, bringing strong, negative energy into the store. On the other hand, a little positive energy flow would be welcome. “Tell her I’ll be with her in a little bit.”
“Okay, but she says they’re doing some sort of cleansing prayer.”
“It’s all good, honey,” she told Monique as she added the hyssop, and then looked at the jar and couldn’t remember if she’d added it in already. There appeared to be more missing from the jar than she’d intended to take. Surely not. Surely she hadn’t added too much.
Heading toward the kitchen, ignoring Francesca’s knocks on Nina’s front door, Bobbie Faye was still steamed from her conversation with Cam and still humiliated from her previous argument with Trevor.
She fully intended on confronting him—and then the wonderful aroma permeating the
kitchen overwhelmed her. There was the mouthwatering scent of bacon and mushrooms and chives and eggs and where on earth had he found this stuff? She was pretty sure Nina’s version of a “stocked kitchen” was a full drawer of take-out menus. As soon as she stepped through the doorway, Trevor set down a glass of orange juice on the granite bar in front of her; he stayed focused on his tasks, moving away from her in that tight t-shirt, maneuvering pans and easing around the room as fluid and beautiful as water flowing over stones. How was it that a man so lethal could simultaneously look so comforting?
The delicious saturation of flavors drenched the air, and the fact that he’d created them stunned her senses, and she drank the orange juice without thinking. As the cold tang hit her palate, something awful scratched at her memory. Something dark and wrong and deeply horrific and she shuddered and couldn’t quite place what it was, but she set the orange juice down as Trevor glanced up from the stove top. He stopped moving and focused completely on her.
“Did he upset you?”
“Who?” she asked, glancing back at the orange juice with an eerie feeling climbing her spine, reminding her of that weird, psychotic dream, and she shook it off and shifted her attention back to Trevor. “Cam?”
“You’re pale.” He plated the omelet and set it in front of the bar stool next to where she stood.
“Cam always manages to upset me.” She didn’t know why the orange juice bothered her, because it tasted fine. “That’s his Standard Operating Procedure.” She looked down at the plate and her stomach growled.
“Eat.” He slid the utensils in front of her. When she didn’t pick up the fork, he added, “Eating this in no way indicates that you’re not still angry with me.”
Girls Just Wanna Have Guns Page 14