by Lois Greiman
I balanced the pizza on my purse and gunned the snappy little Porsche past a late-model Caddy. “I’m afraid I’m otherwise engaged this evening. I’ll—”
“Be right there!” he yelled, ineffectively covering the receiver, then said to me, “Around eight.”
My smile was beatific. A shame it was wasted. “As previously stated, I’m afraid I’ll be unable to—”
“I’ll bring Chinese.”
I felt my salivary glands tingle at the thought of Asian delights, but I infused my spine with pride and the memory of a half dozen broken dates. “That’s very considerate of you but—”
“Don’t bother dressing for dinner,” he said. His voice was low and smoky.
“Listen…” I began, but he had already hung up. I stared blankly at my phone until the blare of a car horn yanked me back to reality. Jerking the Porsche back into my chosen lane, I classily resisted returning my fellow commuter’s early-morning salute and snapped the phone shut.
“Don’t dress for dinner,” I snorted. Like he could just sweep me off my feet with a little white sauce and testosterone. Like I had nothing better to do than wait panting by my door for him to show up with those sexy little take-out boxes from Chin Yung. Like I was desperate!
By the time the low-fuel light clicked on, I had inhaled the pizza and worked up a full head of steam. I swiveled into the nearest gas station, selected a fuel choice that wouldn’t require a third mortgage, and dragged a windshield scraper from its receptacle near the paper towels.
Standing there in my silk suit and classy but secondhand sling backs, I scraped ineffectively at the Porsche’s windshield. The car wasn’t mine. It had been loaned to me by a height-sensitive little myope who was dating my best friend and former secretary, Elaine Butterfield. Laney had recently morphed into the Amazon queen—long story—and left to film a pilot in some remote area of the Calapooya Mountains. Thus I was left with her rightfully insecure beau and a long string of secretarial applicants who could neither type nor, apparently, think. I dared not be late to work, but there was one particularly large blob directly in front of the driver’s seat. It was the color of ripe eggplant, and I was out of washer fluid. Murphy’s Law had struck again.
“Here. Let me help.”
I turned toward the gentleman who had appeared near my left elbow. He was six feet tall in his scuffed work boots and held a windshield scraper in his right hand. Blue fluid dripped from the netted sponge.
“Unless you need to prove your independence or something,” he added. He wore round, gold-framed glasses over aquamarine, heavily lashed eyes. I have four eyelashes. Two on each side. Men always have superior lashes, despite a butt load of Maybelline and feminine insecurity. Coincidence or Murphy’s Law? You be the judge.
“I have a strangulation hernia from carrying salt down to my water softener,” I said.
He studied me, head tilted, hair thinning a little on the top. “Screw independence?” he guessed.
I nodded toward the windshield. “Knock yourself out.”
He did so, not literally, leaning over the hood and sawing with vigor. His blue jeans rode low on narrow hips and there seemed to be zero fat molecules hanging around his waistband.
Turning the scraper, he squeegeed off the excess water and moved around to the other side. His T-shirt had been washed to a soft, olive green that set off the tight flex of his triceps.
“Thank you.” I was trying to put the irritating memory of Rivera’s Asian bribery behind me, but I was still feeling fidgety and a little flushed. “You can leave the rest.”
But he was already applying the sponge to the passenger side. “I’d rather commit murder.”
My nerves cranked up a little. Maybe it was the fact that I was late for work. Or maybe it was the mention of murder. Murder makes me kind of jumpy lately. “What’s that?” I asked.
“Leaving a car like this dirty,” he said, and grinned at me over the sparkling windshield. “It’d be a heinous crime.”
I studied him more closely. “Are you an attorney?”
“No.” He laughed. He had an intelligent aura about him, so I suppose I should have known better. “You?”
“A psychologist.”
He nodded. “If I had a Porsche I’d swaddle it in bubble wrap and stow it in a climate-controlled garage.”
Maybe I should have informed him then and there that the car wasn’t mine, that my own vehicle was just above lumber wagon status, and that I had made more per annum as a cocktail waitress than I did as a licensed therapist, but my vanity was feeling a little bruised. “I’m fresh out of bubble wrap,” I said, and checked my watch. It was 9:52. My first client was due to arrive in eight minutes, and leaving Mr. Patterson with my current receptionist, the Magnificent Mandy—her choice of sobriquets, not mine—would be tantamount to cutting my psychological throat. “And functioning garages.”
“Tell me you don’t leave it out in the elements,” he said, stroking the cobalt hood as if it were a cherished pet. He was kind of cute in an honest, disarming sort of way.
“L.A. doesn’t have any decent elements,” I said.
Dumping the scraper back into its receptacle, he rounded the bumper. “You from Minnesota or something?” he asked.
“Chicago.”
“No kidding? I grew up in Oshkosh. Wisconsin,” he added.
I nodded. “Land of the Packers and baby overalls?”
“That’s right,” he said. Wiping his hand on his jeans, he stretched out his arm. “Will Swanson.” His grip was firm but gentle.
“Christina McMullen,” I said.
He gave me a smile. Little wrinkles radiated from the corners of his eyes. “You miss the cold?”
“Almost as much as I miss acne.”
“Yeah.” The smile fired up a notch. He nodded toward the interior of the gas station. “Me and my brother just moved down here a couple months ago.”
“Movie script in tow?”
He laughed at himself, ran his fingers through his hair. “Guess everyone has one, huh?”
“Not at all,” I lied. “I met a guy just the other day who doesn’t write anything but poetry.”
“Haiku?”
“Free verse.”
He grinned. “We’re doing carpentry work to pay for an overpriced apartment in Compton.”
Thus the nice forearms.
“Say…” He tilted his head again. His hair was straight and a little too long. “You’re short one garage. I’m short on cash, maybe we could help each other out.”
“I’m afraid my cash isn’t very long, either.”
“We work cheap.” He scowled as he glanced at the scrap of paper he’d just pulled from his back pocket. “Sorry. I guess Hank has our business cards, but I can write down my number if you’re interested.”
He did have nice arms. I’d spent money for worse reasons.
He was already scribbling with the nub of a pencil he’d pulled from his jeans. “Are you any good?” I asked.
He nodded, then grinned, hunching his shoulders a little. “Actually, we suck.”
Funny. Self-deprecating. Cute. Rivera was irritating, conceited, and dangerous. Hmmm.
My phone rang from inside the car. I opened the driver’s door.
“Call me sometime,” he said.
I gave him a smile as I slithered onto the Porsche’s buttery seats. And for a moment I almost felt sexy.
By two o’clock sexy was but a distant memory. By six-fifty, I couldn’t even remember what the word meant. I felt tired and kind of dirty…but not in a good way.
The phone rang in the reception area. I waited for the Magnificent Mandy to pick it up. She didn’t. I answered on the fifth ring.
“L.A. Counseling.”
There was a moment’s hesitation before the phone went dead. I put the receiver back in the cradle, at which time my so-called employee poked her head into my office. Her face was heart-shaped, her hair short and dyed the color of lightning bolts.
�
��Should I have answered that?” she asked.
I tightened my hand on the phone and refrained from lobbing it at her head. “That might have been nice.”
“Even if it’s after six?”
I gave her a serene smile. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Oh no.” Her eyes were bubble-bright behind glasses with little stars at the peaks of the black frames. I had hired her because of the glasses, thinking they made her look smart. I’ve made other, equally idiotic decisions, but not in recent memory. “No trouble. That’s what you’re paying me for, right?”
“I thought so.”
“You look tired. You have a hot date or—”
Her question was interrupted by the doorbell. She glanced toward it, thinking hard. Maybe it was easier with her mouth open.
“Perhaps you should see who that is?” I suggested.
She nodded snappily. “Good idea.” Her platform shoes tapped merrily across my carpet and onto the linoleum. Her tights were popsicle pink. “Hello.”
“Hi.” The voice sounded familiar.
There was a pause which Her Magnificence failed to fill.
“I have a seven o’clock appointment.”
No response, but I recognized the newcomer’s voice. Mrs. Trudeau. She’d been a client for some months now. I had a feeling she found me shallow and unprofessional. I’d spent a good deal of time trying to convince her otherwise.
“I called yesterday to reschedule, remember?” she said.
There was another pause, then, “Oh crapski,” Mandy said.
I plunked my head onto the desk and refrained from crying.
It was eight-fifteen when I turned onto the 210. Despite a good deal of self-loathing, I was nervous about Rivera’s impending visit. I needn’t have worried though, because when I pulled the Porsche up in front of my little fixer-upper, his Jeep was nowhere to be seen.
Harlequin met me at the door in a series of whines and wiggling spins, thwapping me with his tail at regular intervals. Harlequin is the approximate size of a minivan. He’s bi-colored and droopy-eyed. If I liked dogs, he would be at the top of my Facebook list.
“No Rivera,” I said.
He cocked his boxy head and grinned at me, showing crooked incisors as I kicked off my sling backs and hobbled into the bathroom.
“Probably best anyway,” I said, locking the dog in the hall as I used the toilet. He whined from the other side of the door. “I have a lot to do.” And exciting things they were too—carpet shampooing being the most titillating.
Straightening my skirt, I scowled at myself in the mirror above the sink and remembered that wisdom comes with age. I was looking pretty wise. Washing my hands, I sighed, then wandered into the hall to arm the security system.
The doorbell rang just as I was about to touch the key pad, and I jumped despite my placid nerves.
Harlequin barked and circled ecstatically. He loved Rivera almost as if the scowling lieutenant were human.
“Steady,” I said. Maybe I was talking to the dog.
Taking a few deep breaths, I put on my cool face and opened the door.
“Congratulations, Rivera. You’re hardly late at—” I began, but my words withered as I recognized the windshield man. He stood on my crumbling steps, hands shoved into his back pockets, eyes sincere behind his wire-rim glasses.
“Will Swanson,” he said and gave me an embarrassed grin. “From the gas station?”
“Oh. Yes.”
Strong as a bulldozer, Harlequin squeezed past my leg to slam his nose into Windshield Guy’s groin.
“Holy crap!” he said, backed against the stucco. “What is that?”
“Sorry. Harlequin, come!” I ordered. I might just as well have told him to dance the mambo. He paid me not the slightest attention. But after a couple more snuffles, he sneezed twice, then galloped loose-limbed down the steps and made a mad circle around my abbreviated yard.
Windshield Guy watched, eyes wide behind the wire-rims. “Is it…a dog?”
“Maybe,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh.” He looked surprised. “I’m sorry.” Embarrassment amped up a notch. “Weren’t you expecting me?”
I may have blinked. It was the most intelligent response I could come up with.
“I called your office.”
I waited.
“Asked if it would be okay to stop by. Your secretary gave me your address,” he added quickly.
I wished like hell I could believe he was lying, but I’d known Mandy for a couple of weeks now. The girl made Gatorade look like Einstein.
“Oh shit,” he said, and blushed, backing away. “She didn’t tell you I called. You probably have company. I can…I’ll come back later.”
“No.” No company. No Asian ambrosia. “How’d you get my phone number?”
“The yellow pages. L.A. Counseling. Christina McMullen, Ph.D.” He was blushing again. Kind of sweet, but when I glanced onto the street, I felt my suspicions fire up. Maybe they’re innate. But maybe the attempts on my life had had an adverse effect on my naturally optimistic nature. “Where’s your car?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve made you uncomfortable.” He backed down the steps. “I’ll let you get back to what you were doing. Give me a call sometime…if you want to.”
Suspicions. Maybe this was why I was sans five fat babies and the ubiquitous minivan. “No. This is fine.” I followed him down the steps. “Did you…want to take a look at the garage?”
I turned left, giving him time to recover.
“I thought your secretary would have told you to expect me.”
“The Magnificent Mandy doesn’t like to be conventional.”
He laughed, sounding nervous. “Hank needed the truck. I took a cab over. Cost me an arm and an ear.”
I immediately felt guilty. I mean, yeah, I did need a new garage, but I was a little more interested in how his forearms flexed when he cleaned windshields. “Listen, Will, I don’t know if I can afford—”
“Shit. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” We’d reached the corner of my garage. It canted toward the south as if fighting a stout nor’westerly. He glanced down Opus Street. There was no traffic this time of night. “I didn’t mean it like that. Man, I’m terrible with hot—” He paused, flustered.
My ears perked up…along with my self-confidence. “What were you saying?”
We made eye contact. The sun was setting, casting a rosy glow over the ensuing night…and my mood. He shuffled his feet. “Hank can charm the socks off pretty girls. But I…” Another shrug.
I remembered our conversation at the gas station. It had actually been rather witty. “I think you do okay.”
“You kidding? I’m sweating like a greased pig. Of course, in Oshkosh they find that sexy.”
I laughed. He exhaled sharply, stared at me for a moment, then turned nervously away. “So this is the alleged garage.”
I gave it a jaundiced glance. I’d once parked Solberg’s Porsche in it. He’d threatened litigation. “Can it be saved?”
He made a face. “Are you religious?”
“When I have to be.”
He tapped a rotted board with his foot. “Now’s the time.”
“I’ll buy a rosary.”
He glanced at me. “You’re kidding. You’re Catholic and beautiful.”
Our gazes locked again. “Am I going to have to pay extra for the flattery?”
“We don’t see a lot of girls like you in Oshkosh,” he said and took a step toward me.
I should have stepped back, but it wasn’t as if Prince Charming was waiting in the wings. Hell, Rivera wasn’t even waiting in the wings. Still, my nerves were jumping. Nice girls don’t make out on the first day. Of course, it had been about a decade and a half since I’d considered myself a girl. And the rules are less stringent for aging women who have been inadvertently celibate for twenty-one months, two weeks, and six days.
“Thought my heart was going to st
op when I saw you across the parking lot,” he said, and stepped a little closer. He smelled kind of woodsy, like fresh-cut timber.
Harlequin galloped around the corner of the garage, chasing nothing.
“Would have sold my kidneys just to see you smile.”
Things were heating up rapidly. “Listen, Will—” I began, but then he kissed me with mouthwatering sweetness.
“I’ll leave if you want me to,” he whispered. “Or—”
He froze, glanced at the street.
“Or what?” I whispered, but suddenly something popped.
“Fuck it!” he swore, and lurched behind me.
Another pop. I spun toward him, numb, disoriented, and sure, absolutely certain someone wasn’t shooting at me. Not again. Wood sprayed into the air. I screamed. He shoved me forward. I fell onto my knees. A bullet whizzed through my hair. I dropped onto my belly, chanting Jesus’ name.
And it must have worked, because the night went silent. My heart was beating like bongos against the dirt. I lifted my head a quarter of an inch. No pinging.
Behind me, something whined and suddenly I felt sick. Sick and shaky.
“Harlequin.” I turned on scathed hands and bloody knees.
Will Swanson was sprawled on the ground in front of me. Eyes staring, hand slack around the pistol that lay beside him.
Also by Lois Greiman
UNZIPPED
UNPLUGGED
*1Janet Evanovich
UNSCREWED
A Dell Book / February 2007
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2007 by Lois Greiman
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Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
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