Unleashed

by Lois Greiman

  “I, ummm…” He stepped back a pace, as one might when facing a rabid dog or really ugly shoes. “I saw you cross the parking lot.”

  “I could have been a client,” I said.

  His brows dipped cautiously. “Not unless you’re really disturbed.”

  I could feel Shirley’s attention darting from me to him and back, like a spectator at an overactive tennis tournament.

  “You come in every day,” he explained. “And don’t leave until late.”

  “You’ve been watching me?”

  “My window faces this direction.”

  “But—”

  “It was awfully nice of you to stop by,” Shirley said, and rose to her feet.

  The silence that followed ticked like a time bomb.

  “Wasn’t it nice of him to stop by?” she asked. Her tone was the kind one generally reserves for fractious two-year-olds and guys with plastic explosives strapped to their chests. “And bring lunch.”

  I cleared my throat and loosened my grip on the pencil. “Yes. My apologies.” I tried a smile. Charming was probably not the adjective most would have used to describe the expression. Ghoulish might be a little too complimentary. “Working in this field can make one rather suspicious, I’m afraid.” I didn’t bother to mention that a couple dozen attempts on a girl’s life can kind of mess with her head, too. I thrust out a well-manicured hand. “I’m Christina McMullen.”

  “Tony Amato. So you’re a psychiatrist?”

  “Psychologist.”

  We shook hands. His fingers were long and tapered, his grip firm. His eyes were summer blue and pretty as a picnic.

  I introduced Shirley, who said her salutations, then hustled into my office in the back. The room was the approximate size of a thumbtack, which made her sojourn there a little suspect. But I wasn’t complaining. Tony did have nice eyes…not as seductive as the scents emanating from the brown paper bag, but nice.

  “The extra money was a tip,” I said, indicating the bag.

  “I can’t take tips.”

  “Really?” I enjoyed being a therapist more than schlepping drinks at the Warthog, as I had in my former life, but I still mourned the lack of gratuities. “Allergic to making a profit, are you?”

  He grinned, flashing teeth as white as last night’s ice cream orgy. Twin dimples winked in his cheeks. “I’m the owner of the establishment.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “I didn’t even know it had been for sale.” A man named Igor Kuchuk, known as Icky Igor by some of his employees (one of whom was his wife), used to own it. He had been, by all accounts, icky.

  “I was a regular for years,” he explained. “When I heard Kuchuk was thinking about retiring…” He shrugged. He was dressed in a lime-green tee and cargo shorts. The lean muscles in his forearms flexed pleasantly as he mimicked a lunging motion. “I pounced.”

  “I see,” I said, and tugged my gaze from his forearms. In my experience, men with nice forearms were usually serial killers. “Well…it really was nice of you to stop by. But I don’t feel right about accepting gifts from anyone I don’t know well.” Besides, the way my luck had been running, he’d probably peppered the turkey with arsenic for as-yet-to-be-determined reasons. “But I really appreciate—”

  “You’re not vegan, are you?”

  Vegan? Hardly. The old Chrissy had been one baby step from cannibalism. But the classy new Chrissy kept that fact strictly to herself. “No, but I’m afraid I overindulged a bit yesterday evening.” I remembered the beef Wellington with lascivious joy, but managed to refrain from drooling. “So I’m going to have to be more judicious today.”

  He rocked back on his heels. The water shoes he wore were made of eye-popping orange neoprene, as if he were prepared, at any given moment, to dive into the surf and wanted to be seen beneath the waves. “Overindulged? Are you kidding me? You’re perfect.”

  I blinked, regrouped, and realized with some surprise that I’d always had a soft spot for serial killers.

  “But if you’re seriously worried about your caloric intake, I’ll leave off the bacon next time,” he said, and lifted the bag a little.

  “There’s bacon in it?” My voice sounded a little weak. I don’t mean to put too fine a point on this, but bacon to a McMullen is like catnip to a…McMullen. Seriously, my brother James got high on catnip on more than one occasion.

  “Apple-smoked,” he said, giving the contents a little shake. “I hate to throw it out.”

  I forced my gaze from the gift with some effort. “That wouldn’t be very environmentally responsible.”

  “And I’m trying to cut down on my carbon footprint.”

  I realized at that moment that I might be in love. Some practical portion of me suggested I could simply be hungry. But how was a woman to tell the difference? Love and hunger…they both suck.

  “Once we run out of our current inventory, all our cups will be corn-based and compostable.”

  “Well, then…” I said, and reached for the bag. “I can hardly turn it down.” There was no tingle as our fingers brushed, but my stomach did rumble a little. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” he said, then shuffled back a step. “Hey, would you…” He shrugged, a nervous lift of substantial shoulders. “Are you busy Saturday?”

  “This Saturday?” Surprise snagged me.

  “Sure. Why not? We could catch Baker’s Marionette Show or something.”

  My eyebrows zipped toward the ceiling. Marionettes? As in, puppets? How old was this guy?

  He laughed. “Or go to a movie.”

  “I’m sorry…” Thoughts of my latest ass-numbing date were spinning in my mind, making the myriad attempts on my life rather appealing by comparison. “But I have an appointment with my…” I thought fast. “Accountant that day.”

  “On a Saturday evening?”

  “Tax season.” I shrugged, feeling guilty. If my olfactory system was correct—and it had a 97.2 percent accuracy where high-caloric treats were involved—the turkey and bacon were being lovingly cradled by a toasted croissant. I love toasted croissants. They’re classy…and buttery. “She’s very busy. I was lucky to get—”

  “Which is why she canceled,” Shirley said.

  I glanced to the left. She was just zeroing in on us from the back.

  I scowled at her. She raised her brows in tacit challenge. “Said she had another appointment she’d forgotten about.”

  “Oh,” I said, while my mind scrambled for another excuse. “Darn. I’m afraid I forgot another appointment, too.”

  “With whom?” she asked, giving her head a sassy tilt.

  I gritted a smile in her direction. “I promised Micky a consultation.”

  “Mr. Goldenstone canceled too,” Shirley said.

  “I just spoke to him this morning,” I lied.

  “He called while I was in back,” she parried.

  “I didn’t hear the phone ring.”

  “He called my cell.”

  “Micky Goldenstone has your cell number?”

  “On speed dial,” she said, and propped capable hands on ample hips, ready to do battle.

  I opened my mouth to object, but just then the door jangled.

  We turned toward it. A young woman stepped tentatively inside. She darted her gaze from me to the others.

  “Is this the psychiatrist’s office?”

  “Psychologist,” I corrected, then smiled, hoping to soften the mood from someone’s-gonna-die to confrontational. “Can I help you?”

  “Saturday, then?” Tony asked, taking advantage of the cease-fire.

  “Seven o’clock. At The Blvd,” Shirley answered, sashaying behind her desk. “I’m Mrs. Templeton,” she said to the newcomer. “And this is Ms. McMullen, PhD. Can we help you?”

  “I don’t know.” She fiddled nervously with the strap of her Prada knockoff. “My boyfriend doesn’t think anyone can.”

  Dumb-ass boyfriends, I thought, a starvi
ng psychologist’s best friend.

  Chapter 3

  Blind dates, proof positive that our species is, as a whole, eternally optimistic…and somewhat stupid.

  —Christina McMullen after her date with Vigo Wilshire, who did not, as his online bio suggested, have a BMW, washboard abs, or an IQ higher than that of your average nail file

  The remainder of my week was filled with hypochondriacs, flashers, and your garden-variety nut jobs. I didn’t hear a word from Rivera. But that didn’t bother me. Why should it? I was the one who’d called it quits. I made myself feel really good about that as I dressed for my Saturday night date.

  Shirley had been extremely pushy about arranging it, but I had generously agreed. The fact that The Blvd was a chic little restaurant on Rodeo Drive that served melt-in-your-mouth filet mignon had almost nothing to do with my decision.

  I dressed conservatively in a plum-colored sheath with dangling silver earrings. I had once dined at The Blvd with Senator Rivera, the lieutenant’s illustrious sire, and bolstered myself with the knowledge that it was highly unlikely that I’d run into my ex-lover/nemesis, since he studiously avoided his father’s haunts.

  Tony was already sitting at the bar when I arrived. He stood when he saw me. Good manners and twin dimples. If this guy didn’t try to kill me soon, I’d consider taking him home to Harlequin.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said.

  “Thanks for inviting me,” I said, though, in actuality, it was Shirley who had issued the invitation. Tony was dressed in a blue button-down shirt and pinstripe vest casually overlooking a pair of rust-colored skinny jeans. His shoes were retro and his autumn-gold hair charmingly tousled. We were seated in moments, after which he ordered a twelve-year-old bottle of Château d’Yquem. I didn’t bother to tell him I wouldn’t be able to differentiate it from grape Kool-Aid. We were painfully quiet. I was the one to start the proverbial ball rolling.

  “So…” I refrained from fiddling with the silver fork, which weighed, I was pretty sure, more than my handbag. “Have you always wanted to be a barista?”

  He glanced at me through charmingly long lashes. Maybelline might have paid him big bucks to do a commercial had they not been such female chauvinists. “I suppose that sounds boring to you,” he said. His tone suggested mild embarrassment.

  “Actually…” I did fiddle now. First dates are like the plague. Horrible and potentially deadly. “I’m a big fan of boring.”

  He raised his brows a little, looking hopeful. “Really?”

  “It’s the new exciting.”

  “I didn’t know that.” He thanked the woman who brought our wine and barely gave her a second glance after she’d poured. I added another tally to his ongoing score; she was obnoxiously pretty, probably an Oklahoma-farm-girl-turned-Hollywood-extra-turned-waitress.

  “How about you?” he asked. “Have you always wanted to be a psychologist?”

  I couldn’t help but be impressed that he had actually gotten my occupation right. My own father was still pretty sure I was a psychiatrist. Or maybe a psychopath. Glen McMullen didn’t like to become overly involved in his kids’ lives. It was one of my favorite things about him. “Anyone would if they’d grown up with my family.”

  He took a sip of the lovely tawny beverage. “If family is the determining factor I’d be a therapist too.” He pulled a thoughtful expression. “Or a hit man.”

  “You must have brothers,” I guessed.

  “Four.”

  God save me. “And nary a hit man in sight?” I said it like a question, since one couldn’t be too sure.

  He chuckled, making me wonder if he might be in possession of a sense of humor. Dimples and a funny bone…the idea was almost too much to hope for. “I do own a bar, though, in case I feel the need to self-medicate.”

  “Your family must be close by, then.”

  “Too close, yes.”

  “In L.A.?”

  “On planet Earth. How about you?”

  I laughed, relaxing a little. “Chicago area. What do you do when you’re not self-medicating or hopping up others with java beans?”

  “I like to cook.”

  “You’re a chef?” I loved chefs. Or more correctly, I loved the fruits of their labors.

  “Not really. I just help out when someone can’t make it in.”

  “Make it in where?”

  He looked kind of embarrassed again. “I have a couple of restaurants.”

  “A couple?”

  “Well, three.”

  “But you wanted a coffee shop, too?”

  “The Sunrise was on my way to work, and I was spending so much on caffeine, so I thought…” He shrugged.

  “You bought a shop so you wouldn’t have to buy coffee?”

  He grinned a little and changed the subject. “Aubry said you’ve had your practice for a couple years now.”

  I braced myself, mind screaming with possibilities. Aubry—his mother, with whom he cohabitated and shared a collection of human entrails? His ex-girlfriend, who he still loved “like a sister”? The pet hamster that had taught him everything he knew about world politics? “Aubry?” I kept my tone neutral on the off chance that he wasn’t as weird as the last eighty or so men I had dated.

  “An employee. She’s got three brothers, too, and I thought—”

  “Four.”

  “What?”

  I felt as if all the blood had drained to my feet. I tightened a fist around the substantial weight of my butter knife. “You said you had four brothers.”

  “You have three.” He explained it so easily that for a moment I almost accepted it, but the truth dawned on me in an instant.

  “I never told you how many I have.”

  “Well…” He paused for an instant, smiling. “You moved all the way from Chicago. So I figured it was more than two but less than—”

  “How did you know?” My voice was a little reminiscent of Darth Vader’s now…raspy and kind of scary.

  “I just—”

  I raised the cutlery.

  He lifted a palm in mild self-defense. “I just wanted to know a little bit more about you, so I…I checked you out.” He paused again, perhaps noticing my expression, my tone, my weapon of choice. “I didn’t really consider becoming a hit man, Christina. I’m pretty normal, considering.”

  “Considering what?”

  “Listen, if you’re not comfortable with this, I understand.”

  “This?”

  He indicated the restaurant with an open hand. “This date. I just…honestly, I don’t know how women do it.”

  I gave him a head tilt.

  “Go out with unknown men,” he explained. “I’d never have the nerve, knowing what I know.”

  “What do you know?”

  “That people are crazy.”

  I nodded a little. “Are you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Not exactly a ringing endorsement, Tony.”

  “It seems to me the most reliable sign of instability is the absolute certainty of sanity.”

  The man had a point.

  He was watching me, suntanned brow wrinkled with concern. “I’ll leave if you want.”

  I remained as I was, mind spinning.

  “Dinner’s on me. Order anything you like.” He shoved his chair back. “I’ll just take off.”

  My heart was thumping in my chest, but I forced myself to shake my head and put down my impromptu weapon. “No. I’m sorry. I’ve just…” I glanced at my drink, wishing I could blame it for my neuroses, but I hadn’t yet taken so much as a sip and it probably hadn’t inebriated me through the ether. I exhaled heavily. “Maybe I should quit watching the nine o’clock news. Scary…scary stuff…you know?” Or, better yet, maybe people could quit trying to kill me. That’d be a dandy idea, too. “Please stay.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  No. “Yes,” I said. “Forgive me.”

  Conversation was a little bumpy after that, but it smoothed o
ut over appetizers and was flowing pretty effortlessly by the time the entrees arrived.

  “So you have a restaurant in the valley?” I asked. I had ordered the bream with braised artichokes. It had been seasoned to perfection and drizzled with something that resembled ambrosia. Still, I had refrained from licking the plate. Go, Chrissy.

  “The Florence,” he said. “Paulie makes a pretty good seafood manicotti.”

  “With lobster?”

  He took a sip of wine and nodded. “And shrimp.”

  “That sounds…” Orgasmic. “Quite good.”

  His gaze met mine. “Maybe you’d like to try it sometime…once…you know…you’re certain I’m not planning to…”

  “Kill me?” I suggested. I’d finished my first glass of wine, and although I hadn’t yet slipped under the table, the alcohol had certainly eased the knot in my stomach. The thought that Tony might bear me ill will seemed ridiculous now. Probably those past few murder attempts had been nothing more than a bout of bad luck.

  He gave me a look of confusion. “Why would I want to kill you?”

  I laughed at his expression, jolly as an elf. “I’m sorry I was so suspicious. What are your restaurants’ other specialties?”

  He shrugged. “Tommy’s gnocchi is a favorite. And the fettuccine is always popular. But I like the chicken piccata the best.”

  “Chicken—” I began enthusiastically, but something across the room caught my attention. I glanced to the right and felt my brain freeze.

  It hardly seemed possible, and it certainly wasn’t fair, but Lieutenant Jack Rivera was standing not twenty feet from us. I had to look twice to make sure he wasn’t some sort of apparition, but sure enough, he was there. As dark and intense and damnably magnetic as I remembered. Our gazes met with a sparking clash. The air rushed out of my lungs like a cyclone leaving a collapsing building, but in a second I had caught myself. Swallowing hard, I dragged my gaze back to Tony’s affable expression.

  “Piccata,” I said, remembering the topic.

  He was silent for a second. My teeth ached. I eased them apart, drawing my lips into a smile that might have resembled something rather lupine.