Weddings Can Be Murder

by Christie Craig

  “Bull. You love the dog. You just won’t admit it.”

  “Why wouldn’t I admit it?”

  “Because you’re macho,” she repeated with a smirk.

  It was the smirk that clued him in. What a second ago had sounded like a compliment, now didn’t ring that way anymore. “And macho doesn’t do it for you, huh?”

  Okay, he should cut this crap out. He was flirting, flirting with danger and with a woman so unlike his type. Hell, the type of woman he’d dated, before he’d stopped dating, didn’t blush, didn’t hesitate to fill him in on their do-it-yourself toys. The women he’d dated hadn’t been engaged to someone else.

  Plain and simply, he didn’t date the marrying kind. And perhaps that was why she intrigued him. She was just so damn refreshing. And he was having more fun right now than he’d had in years. Never mind that they were locked up in a room cold enough to be a morgue and, appropriately enough, that there was a dead body a few rooms away. Fun, in spite of the cold that dug into his gut.

  “Macho isn’t in anymore,” she answered.

  “What’s in?” He forced his attention to the box’s contents. Doodads. He picked up a figurine. Dust catchers. And women wanted to set them all around a house for what reason? He had a box in the attic that Amy had left along with her dog.

  “Women want metro men,” she said.

  “Metro?” He looked up and watched her shiver. “Men who use public transportation?”

  She grinned again. “Metrosexual men aren’t afraid to be in touch with their feminine side.”

  He closed the box. “So women want gay men? When did this happen? Don’t tell me, it was the movie. Broken Mountain.”

  “Brokeback Mountain.”

  “Well, something was broken for someone to make that film. Not that I got anything against it.”

  Her sexy mouth twisted into another smile. “Metro isn’t gay. Just men who aren’t afraid of being sensitive. Men who aren’t afraid to cry, or admit they like quiche. They may even know how to cook it. Men who put up with overbearing moms. Or”—she pointed at him—“who admit they could like a poodle.”

  He set another box down beside her. “I’m not afraid of being sensitive. Hey, I donate blood.” Her expression drew his gaze and kept him talking. “I didn’t actually cry, but giving blood almost brought a tear to my eye.”

  She laughed again and he wanted to lose himself in that sound. “I wouldn’t know how to cook quiche—not sure I’d know a quiche if I ran over one—but I’ll eat just about anything that doesn’t bite back. And not to brag, but I cook a mean scrambled egg and can grill burgers and steaks better than any man this side of the Houston Ship Channel.”

  Lifting the box lid, he discovered more knickknacks, but his eye quickly went back to her. “I’ll admit I’m not proud of having a sissy dog following me around, but I haven’t used his fuzzy butt for target practice. Doesn’t that make me part metro?”

  She studied him. “You can’t admit you like him, can you?”

  “I don’t hate him. And hey, I feel bad when I step on him. Which I don’t do on purpose. The damn thing has a foot fetish.”

  She shook her head and her red hair shimmered. He let his mind drift to what it would be like to feel it on his naked chest. To feel that mouth moving south. His gaze cut to the door. They were locked up, it was colder than a witch’s tit, what better way to stay warm than have a few rounds of hot sex?

  She brushed her hair back. “Poor dog.”

  His dick started reacting to his wayward thoughts. Then he remembered all the reasons getting it on with her wouldn’t be smart. Ahh, but he’d always been more brawn than brains.

  Silence fell, and he let it linger before asking, “Your fiancé, is he metro?”

  Her attention lifted from the box, and he could swear he spotted half of a frown. “Joe’s a very nice man.”

  “But does he cry, cook you quiche, and own a sissy dog and admit to the world that he loves it?”

  “He doesn’t cry.”

  She pulled the jacket tighter. Carl liked seeing her in it. He’d love seeing her out of it, too. “Does he cook?” The cold made his shoulder ache.

  “No.” A puff of vapor left her lips. “And he doesn’t have a dog, but he’s very sensitive to my needs.”

  Only a real queer wouldn’t give his left nut for the opportunity to be sensitive to your needs. The crude remark almost slipped from his mouth, but he bit it back. He tried to justify his sudden dislike for her fiancé, but couldn’t think of a good reason. “What does Mr. Sensitive do for a living?”

  “He’s an engineer. And his name is Joe Lyon.”

  He stared at her left hand, and while he’d noticed it earlier and hadn’t asked, now his curiosity bit harder. “Why aren’t you wearing an engagement ring?”

  Her gaze shot up. “I…I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Trouble in paradise?” Why did that thought make him happy?

  “No.” She opened a new box and her eyes widened. “Yes! Finally. I think I just found something we can use.”

  Tools? Relief swept over him. Every instinct Carl owned told him the sooner he got away from Red, the better.

  After hitting another ice patch, Joe pulled up to the curb and dialed Katie’s cell again. It wasn’t like her to not show up. He’d been worried about her all evening.

  Yeah, when you weren’t too busy flirting with sexy blondes.

  He thumped his hand on the steering wheel. What the hell had he been doing? Okay, he knew he hadn’t done anything that constituted cheating. But damn if he hadn’t wanted to.

  Taking a deep breath, he ran his hands through his hair. Wanting to do something wasn’t a crime. But was it a sign? A sign that he was making the biggest fucking mistake of his life?

  The sound of BB-sized hail pelting his windshield drew his attention to the bad driving conditions. Had Katie been in an accident? Or had he gotten the time wrong? Was she ticked at him? That would explain why she wasn’t answering his calls.

  “Oh, hell!” He deserved Katie’s anger. Not for getting the times mixed up, if that was what had happened, and maybe not even for being attracted to the blonde, because he hadn’t done anything, but he deserved shit for ignoring Katie these past few weeks. He was one lucky bastard to have found her. To have someone as good-natured, as loyal, and as breathtakingly sexy, who wanted the same things out of life that he did. A woman who could tolerate his mom. A woman whom his mom approved of. Marrying Katie made sense. Perfect sense.

  So why the fuck didn’t he feel lucky?

  Chapter Nine

  “Tools?” Carl jumped up to see for himself.

  “Not tools,” Katie said. “Clothes.”

  He stared at her. “Clothes?”

  She stood and unzipped his coat. “Yeah. Now you can quit pretending you aren’t cold and have your jacket back.”

  Okay, he had to admit that he was freezing his ass off, but he felt positive he hadn’t shown that bit of weakness.

  “Clothes,” he repeated, with about as much enthusiasm as he’d say tax audit. But then she stripped off his jacket and he got to see what he’d been missing since she’d zipped the thing up.

  And he had missed it, too. She tossed his jacket at him. He caught it before it hit his face and obstructed his view. His gaze whispered over the soft mounds of flesh filling out her thin, sexy-as-hell pale blue sweater and matching top. Then his focus moved down to the same-color jeans, which fit like a glove, showcasing every dip and curve. He loved dips and curves.

  She pulled something bright yellow from the box. It looked like a bulky ski jacket. Which was going to cover up more of that curvy body than his own jacket had.

  When she slipped one arm in, the hem of her sweater rose and gave him a peek at the skin of her flat belly. Yes, he liked skin. His gaze stayed riveted to the spot, hoping for another flash. It had been too damn long since he’d seen feminine belly skin. Touched skin. Tasted skin.

  His mouth watered.
Then it was gone.

  She pulled the thick ski jacket closed in front and zipped. Reaching down, she brought out a matching scarf. She wrapped it around her neck twice, and it even covered up the bottom of her face—which cheated him out of seeing her mouth. That hurt, because he’d really enjoyed looking at her mouth.

  Then came the gloves. He hadn’t thought about her hands being sexy, but he knew he was going to miss seeing them, too.

  “Here.” She reached back into the box and tossed a scarf at him. “Put this on.”

  He caught the fuzzy and glittery pink strip of fabric. “Red, you’re nuts if you think I’m going to wear this.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said, the tease in her voice muffled by the scarf. “I forgot. You’re macho.”

  “And proud of it,” he snapped. “And to prove it, I’m going to go pee standing up, something I bet metro men don’t do anymore.” He tossed the scarf back into the box. But he did slip his jacket back on and cast her a quick glance.

  “All I need is hot cocoa and something to eat,” she said.

  The mention of food had his own stomach growling, and he remembered. He pulled the bag out of his coat pocket.

  “Here, have some worms.” He tossed them to her and took off to the head.

  While lathering soap over her body, Les thought she heard something. Then she thought she saw something. Okay, she did see something. A shadow on the other side of the shower curtain.

  Katie? She’d started to call out when a leg, a masculine, hairy, naked leg, slipped from behind the drape of plastic and moved inside the shower. Inside. Inside the shower.

  Inside the shower with her.

  Following the leg was…Yes, it had been a while, but she still recognized a half-aroused penis when she saw one.

  Her first reaction wasn’t fear. More like shock. More like incredible shock. Astonishment, even. But forcing her eyes from the impressive male package to the man’s face, all her stunned emotions were yesterday’s news and fear jumped into the driver seat.

  Him!

  The guy from the bar. The one she’d thought was a hero. He’d followed her.

  Heroes didn’t follow girls from bars. Freaks followed girls from bars. As an ex-investigative reporter she knew what freaks did to their victims, too.

  Her lungs gave up every bit of air she had to make sure her scream could be heard on the other side of China. Then, realizing screaming might not be enough, she started fighting. Fighting mean. Fighting dirty.

  She kicked. She curled her hands into tight fists and punched.

  The intruder stood frozen, staring at her with eyes wider than Ping-Pong balls. So she uncurled her fist and fought like a real girl. She ran her fingernails down the side of his face so hard she knew she’d drawn blood. That at least got a reaction from him. He backed up.

  “Stop,” he spat out.

  Oh, yeah. As if she was calmly going to let him rape and possibly kill her. Panic jolted through her. She tried to lunge out, but her foot slipped and she tumbled full force into him. They fell, or rather slid, down into the tub. They went down really smooth, him on the bottom, her on top. The soap she’d slathered on her body made for some serious slipping and sliding. Her naked body slipping all over his naked body. The feel of his arousal, now more than half-mast and positioned between her thighs, sent her panic roaring to new levels.

  He grabbed her arm. Trying to grab the edge of the tub, she knocked off the dandruff shampoo. Knowing a weapon when she knocked one over, she snatched it up and squeezed like her life depended on it—which it probably did—until the whole bottle emptied into his eyes.

  “Damn!”

  While he frantically wiped at his face, she jackknifed up, stepping on his face in the process, and hurdled out of the shower. But the moment her wet, shampoo-laden foot hit the tile, she went down, and her hand landed on the floor by the phone. She snatched it up.

  Flipping the phone open, crawling toward the door, she dialed 911 and started screaming, “Help me!” The shower curtain rustled behind her. Breath held, phone to ear, she bounced to her feet and flew out the door.

  Obscenities spouted out from the bathroom. Yeah, it always did take a few minutes for the shampoo to start stinging.

  Les tore out into the hall. “Help me,” she screamed again into the phone, and tripped again.

  “Hey.” The man appeared at the bedroom door.

  Les scrambled up. Afraid she’d never outrun him, she darted into Katie’s study, slammed the door, and locked it. She flung herself against it. Her heart throbbed against her chest bone. Oh, God, she couldn’t breathe.

  A voice came out of her phone. A woman’s voice. The 911 operator. “Are you okay? Talk to me!”

  “Help!” Les squeezed the words out. “He followed me.”

  “Where are you? Give me your address.”

  “I didn’t follow you!” a masculine voice boomed from the other side of the door.

  Les spouted out Katie’s address. “Please hurry.”

  “Don’t hang up!” the 911 operator insisted. “Do you hear me? Stay on the line. The police are on their way.”

  “The police are coming,” Les yelled at the intruder. “Get out of here!” She glanced around the study for something she could use as a weapon. She grabbed an umbrella. Phone in one hand, umbrella in the other.

  “I don’t know who the hell you are,” the man said, “or how you got here, but I did not follow you.”

  Les’s heart hammered as she stared at the door. Cold air stirred across her naked butt, reminding her that she was wet and naked and she’d come within a hair of being raped. Another frigid blast of wind made her skin prickle. She turned around and saw the broken window. Glass lay scattered on the carpet. Was that how he’d gotten in?

  “If you’re calling the police, you’d better tell them that I didn’t lay a finger on you,” the intruder yelled from the hall.

  She heard his footsteps. What if he went around and tried to come in through the window? Her heart thumped harder.

  “Are you still with me?” the 911 operator asked.

  “Yes.” And Les pressed her other ear to the door to listen. Nothing. Had he left?

  “Are you safe right now?” the voice asked.

  “I don’t know,” Les whimpered, and thought she heard a door.

  “Is he still there?” she asked.

  “I think he might have left.” Les forced herself to breathe.

  “Can you get out of the house to go to a neighbor’s?”

  Les’s gaze shot back to the window—where she swore she saw a shadow. Then she saw it again. Did he plan to come in through the window for her? She unlocked the study door and tore out into the hall.

  “Worms?” Katie flung the bag to the floor.

  “Sour gummy worms.” Carl laughed and grabbed them and handed them to her. “Oh, the green ones suck. Even Precious says so.” He disappeared into the bathroom.

  She saw him start to close the door. Her gaze flew back to the other door leading in from the hall. “Wait,” she said.

  He stuck his head back out. “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said, feeling ridiculous. The man deserved some privacy, and she just needed to toughen up. For God’s sake, she was a Ray.

  He stared at her, then at his hand on the door. When he stepped back in, he left the door ajar.

  Okay, so he’d guessed she was afraid. She should be embarrassed. And she was, when she heard the sound of him emptying his bladder.

  When had she become a wimpy woman?

  Since you saw a woman killed a couple of hours ago.

  True, she had good reasons to be a little nervous.

  Silence fell. A slight bump sounded against the door. And not the door to the bathroom, either. Oh, Lord.

  Was she so nervous that she would imagine noises? It came again. A tap. Her breath hitched. She hadn’t imagined that.

  “Carl!” she screamed.

  The naked woman slammed right into Joe. Of course,
he was assuming it was the same woman. He couldn’t see shit. He’d barely managed to find his jeans. The blonde had squirted him right in the eyes with Katie’s dandruff shampoo. And he’d let her—he’d lain there with her soapy body slipping and sliding on top of him and let her squeeze the entire bottle into his baby blues. And he’d fucking kept his eyes open, too.

  Normally, he wasn’t so passive, but he’d been beyond stunned when he’d stepped in the shower—expecting to see Katie all naked and hopefully willing, hoping to reconnect with his fiancée, praying some hot sex would chase away his doubts. Instead, for a second there, he’d thought he was hallucinating. Yeah, he’d been stunned all right.

  He’d moved past stunned now, because when she started to fight again, he started to stop her. Hurting her wasn’t his objective—protecting himself was.

  She swung her knee up. He caught it. She went to whack him in the face with her phone. He ducked. She swung an umbrella at his head and he snagged it and tossed it away. Then he caught her wrists. Her phone fell to the carpet.

  “Stop it,” he screamed. Holding her wrists in his hands, he moved her against the wall to prevent her knee from taking out his family jewels.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” He knew he’d scared her, but he had to get her calmed down. Calm enough so when the police arrived, they didn’t shoot first and ask questions later. Questions, as in does the dead guy have any identification on him?

  But, damn, this didn’t make sense. What was this blonde doing in Katie’s shower? Who the hell was—Oh crap!

  Katie’s friend who lived in Boston was supposed to be here that week. He remembered this woman telling him she’d been waiting for a friend at the bar. She could have been waiting for Katie, too.

  The blonde continued to struggle. Her breasts brushed against him. He ignored his body’s response to her tight nipples and focused on crucial shit. As in the police are on their way here now. The police whom she’d told that he was a freak who’d followed her home.

  What had Katie told him her friend’s name was? He clawed at his memory. “Les? You’re Les, aren’t you? I’m Joe Lyon, Katie’s fiancé.”