8
“All things being equal, I prefer life over death, ’cause, you know, I never have thought of a suitable comeback for that.”
Tori Karacis
I awoke to a slight pressure on my chest and lips on mine—vaguely, um, mushy—with breath definitely garlic-tinged pushing its way into my mouth. My gag reflex kicked in and the pressure disappeared as I curled onto my side in a fetal position and coughed up a noxious cocktail of saltwater and bile. The heel of a hand bruised my back several times, presumably to encourage the purge. It certainly did that—each time my head would swim and the vertigo caused me to heave-ho.
I was about ready to take a whack at the hand’s owner when I realized something terribly important: I was alive. Pain was just a side effect.
“Ulg—” I managed as the hand hit me again.
A moment of blissful silence was observed. Then I rolled over only to be captured by the rapt stare of my green-haired, barely post-pubescent rescuer. Sure, I thought, it couldn’t have been Orlando Bloom or Hugh Jackman. Oh no, it had to be a refugee from Green Day. It wasn’t a thought I was particularly proud of, but apparently my inner censor hadn’t yet recovered her equilibrium.
“You okay?” he asked earnestly.
Since the poor boy was still dripping wet, I was guessing I owed him for more than a little mouth-to-mouth.
When I didn’t answer immediately, he added, “Jill called 9-1-1.”
It was the first I noticed that there were other people around as well. Enough to start our own beach volleyball game.
I groaned.
“I saw you go down out there,” he continued. “I didn’t think there were sharks here, but I guess I was wrong, huh?”
I tried to shake my head and it nearly split in two.
It felt like someone with a crowbar was trying to whack his way out of my skull.
Seconds later, we were joined by paramedics, who oh-so-helpfully pushed aside the kids and shined an overly bright light into my eyes. I only let them live because 1) I was too weak to move farther and 2) they brought blankets.
It was all fun and games ’til they pulled out the stretcher, the better to cart me off to the hospital, at which point I became an instant convert to Christian Scientology—or whatever it was that claimed medical care was Evil. ’Cause everyone knows that evil spelled backwards is live.
Everybody stared at me as if I had two heads and had maybe conked them both too hard out there on a reef. The burlier of the two medics looked like he was ready to haul me in anyway—for a psychiatric exam if nothing else—but his partner held him back with a “Dude, we can’t do it.”
He turned to me then. “But, lady, if you don’t go with us, you gotta get someone to come out here for you. There’s no way you’re going home on your own steam. You can’t drive.”
Burly rolled his eyes. “I’ll get the paperwork,” he said, and stomped off up the beach toward the ambulance.
From the ’tude, I was guessing refusal of care came with a cover-your-buttload of paperwork. But that wasn’t my problem. My problem was that on my shoestring budget I never had gotten around to frivolous things like health insurance. The paramedics alone would probably bankrupt me. The hospital was right out.
Paperwork meant questions I shuddered to consider answering. My throat ached like I’d swallowed prickly pears. I tried to think of something that would head them off at the pass.
“Wallet,” I croaked to the surfer dude, shakily moving to pat my pocket.
When I left my purse behind, I generally folded essentials—driver’s license, PI license, gun permit, some cash and cards—into a bifold case that slipped into my pocket. I hadn’t planned on going for a swim. I wondered what had fared worse, my body or various IDs.
Surfer dude took pity on my slow-motion attempt to fish out my wallet and finally did the honors. He took an inordinate amount of time flipping through everything, even letting an “oh cool” slip out at the sight of my PI license and carry permit, before finally stopping at one card with a hand-scrawled cell phone number. Armani’s. I groaned as he turned it toward me in question and took a swallow—big mistake—before nodding my head in answer.
Armani was going to make me pay for this, but I didn’t see any other option. I was pretty sure that the cell phone on my hip and all the nice numbers in memory had not survived the dunking.
My eyes must have started to close because the next thing I knew, I was getting slapped in the face. “Stay with us,” surfer boy commanded.
“So tired,” I mumbled.
But one of the EMTs had an answer for that—a series of rapid-fire questions to correspond to those little blanks on the paperwork attached to his clipboard. I tried answering each in ten words or less, wondering if they’d believe my near-death experience had spurred me to a sudden vow of silence.
By the time Armani arrived, the few gawkers—with no big drama like spurting blood or writhing in pain to hold them—had melted away, including my rescuer, who I realized to my shame I hadn’t even thanked. I was almost looking forward to whatever riot act Armani was sure to read me if only because he wouldn’t expect an answer—at least, not until he wound down. Dashing my hopes, he drifted in silent as the grave to loom over the shoulder of my inquisitor after talking to the other EMT. His lips were tightly compressed, though, and I could tell this was just the calm before the storm.
When the questioning finally died off, Armani reached down to help me up and through sheer force of will I managed to get my muscles working so that I wasn’t completely dead weight. The romantic image of being clasped to Armani’s chest while he heroically bore me off into the sunset fell apart completely with the reality that the scene would more likely involve staggering and cursing under his breath. Not to mention the whole damsel-in-distress thing had never worked for me anyway.
Girl power and all that aside, though, there was something about Armani clutching me tight, his strong arm heating my gooseflesh that was maybe just a little gratifying. Add to that the fact that he wasn’t even complaining that I was getting him completely soaked in the process and I was about ready to take him home to mother, but that seemed a piss-poor way to repay him.
As soon as Armani had me settled into the car with the heat cranked to full, he turned my way and I thought here it comes.
“Christian Scientology?” he asked, a glint in his eye.
My shrug was barely detectable. “No insurance,” I rasped back. “Had to say something.”
He looked like he was struggling not to smile. “I think they call themselves Christian Scientists.”
“I’ll”—I winced as the pain temporarily overwhelmed me—“remember that.”
Armani studied me for a few beats before reaching for his seat belt, adjusting my mirrors and generally doing the guy pre-flight check.
“Sounds like you’re in a lot of pain right now, so I’m not going to ask, but as soon as you get some aspirin and dry clothes, I want the full story, even if you have to sign it to me.”
I nodded meekly, made mellow by the warmth. My eyes shut of their own volition and the next thing I knew, Armani and I were parked out in front of my apartment building and he was trying to wake me by chafing my hands. His face was less than a breath away from mine until he noticed that my eyes had opened.
Once inside, I felt like an invalid as I sat at what would have been my kitchen table had I had such a room and directed Armani toward pain meds and glasses via hand gestures. I tried not to notice that my studio apartment was not exactly in company condition—the pull-out sofa I slept on was still in disheveled bed mode, my jammie T-shirt slung over the side, dishes I’d been hoping elves would clean piled in the sink. But it seemed that Armani was the most concerned with the fact that I was about to exceed the doctor-recommended dose of the generic painkiller he brought me.
“Reformed Christian Scientist,” I said, hoping to bring back the smile I’d seen earlier.
“Uh huh,” he responded.
“Um,” yikes—okay, no unnecessary thinking noises. I mimed my way to the pad and paper beside my telephone.
I really appreciate you picking me up, I scribbled. Really. But—
“But what?” Armani asked, his voice gone cold. Apparently, his cop skills extended to reading upside-down chicken scratch.
Frustrated, I put down the pen. Writing was going to be too damned slow.
“I need a bath,” I croaked, hand to my throat as if it would make any difference. “Right now I feel like I’d pass out bending over to start the water. I’d never have called you to begin with if—” my voice gave out, which was probably a good thing, given that what had been coming out sounded all wrong in my head. I swallowed and tried again, softer. “Not that you were my last choice. Just—I need a girlfriend.”
Armani looked at me like a suspect he intended to crack, as if every word spoken had some other meaning. Finally, he swiped a hand hard over his face.
“Look, you witnessed a murder, came face-to-face with the killer. We probably should have set some sort of watch on you right from the first. My fault. But—dammit, by the time you’re through flirting and baiting, it’s a wonder I remember my own damned name,” he growled.
I was flummoxed. “So I do get to you.”
He practically glared. “Yeah, like that’s a freakin’ news flash. Why else do you do it?”
“Because I can’t help myself,” I answered.
Damn and double damn. I should have stuck with the pen.
My admission didn’t seem to make him any happier. “Look, you’re a witness in an ongoing investigation.”
“Yeah.”
“And a pain in my ass.”
I was tired, I was soaked to the bone, but as much as I wanted that bath and my bed …“So?” I challenged.
“So, we can’t do this.”
“Do what?” I asked, exasperated. “We’re not doing anything—”
In the blink of an eye, Armani had risen from his chair, taken my face in his hands and shut me the hell up with a kiss. And not just any tentative little first kiss—a breath-stealing, heart-pounding, fade-to-black kind of showstopper. I found I wasn’t nearly as exhausted as I’d thought. With minds of their own, my fingers buried themselves in his hair, reveling in the feel of the thick strands, kneading his scalp. My thoughts scattered as his tongue thrust inside my mouth and I gasped in reaction.
His hands slid from my face, down over my wet camisole, just brushing my breasts before settling on my hips. I was no longer cold—superheated was more like it—but wet was another matter.
Armani pushed himself away. Without looking at me, he muttered, “I’ll start the water running and wait just outside the door so I can hear you if you fall.” And he escaped into the only other room in my apartment, the bathroom.
My head fell to the table in frustration and sudden weakness. In the time it took him to get things ready, a series of unworthy thoughts flitted through my mind—pulling him in with me, faking a fall, flat-out asking him to wash my back. But I wasn’t going to trick Armani into anything. He either wanted me or he didn’t.
Still, I couldn’t help a bit of teasing, allowing a breast to brush his arm as he escorted me to the bath. “I may need help with these wet clothes,” I said, damaged throat making it come out all husky.
He shot me a sidelong look. “At this point, I don’t think the bath would do those clothes any harm.”
“Such a gentleman,” I answered with a roll of my eyes.
“I am a gentleman. That’s why you’re on your own with those clothes.” Then he decided to turn my teasing back on me. “Besides, if I were to take them off, I’d need to taste you right”—the hand not supporting me rose to ever-so-gently slide over my throat until his thumb caressed the hollow—“here.”
My nipples practically stood at attention, pushing noticeably against my camisole. The look he gave me was hot enough to scorch and smug besides.
I had no comeback.
“Speechless? Hmm, I’ll have to remember that.”
Which sounded promising, like maybe he’d do it again sometime, regardless of his “me heap big by-the-book cop” speech of earlier.
I wanted to give him something to remember all right, but with my legs wiggling like limp spaghetti, now didn’t seem the time. We made it into the bathroom without incident—or rather I did. The room was barely big enough for me by my lonesome. Even toweling off presented challenges. Once I was through the door, Armani closed it behind me, leaving a gap too thin even for a peep show.
As soon as he heard me settle into the water, the grilling began, evaporating my pleasant erotic buzz. Why had I been on the beach? Was I investigating a lead I’d failed to share with the police? What the hell had I been doing in that water? What in the blue blazes had happened out there? Okay, he really didn’t talk like that, but the effect was the same. I told him everything, quietly, painfully, including that I’d planned to go from the beach right to the station to talk about a possible link to Sierra Talbot’s death, but when it came to what had happened, I pleaded for a break.
My throat felt like someone had attacked it with sandpaper and ammonia, but more than that I needed to think. If I told him I’d been fighting with the killer, he’d demand to know why I hadn’t told him sooner. He might even insist on some kind of protective custody. If I didn’t fess up, I’d have to invent a plausible explanation for my condition and my brain didn’t seem to have thawed out just yet.
Generally, I’d found the truth, or a good portion thereof, would garner a lot less trouble than fabrication in the long run. In this case, though, with the truth so much stranger than fiction …
Getting out of the tub was like a really bad sitcom sketch—in a late-night slot due to the nudity and language. I got myself nearly upright before the strength in my legs gave up the ghost and they went straight out from under me. I bit down on a yelp to keep Armani from running to my rescue and grabbed frantically for the towel bar, which held for like a microsecond before coming half out of the wall and almost taking me down with it. I brought one knee up to catch my weight on the edge of the tub, but I was clumsy. Kneecap impacted with porcelain and exploded in pain.
Armani burst through the door at the commotion and grabbed me before the other half of the towel rack could give way. I clutched at him gratefully, as humiliating as it was, because the alternative was to go down in a soggy naked heap.
“You okay?” he asked, looking into my eyes and nowhere else.
My face had to match my burgundy towels, now spilling onto the floor, trailing in the puddle I’d created. “Sorry, I just, kinda, lost it for a second there.”
“No problem. Want me to carry you?”
I think I made a sound something like urk. “No, but if you could get me”—my hand went involuntarily to my throat as it flared in pain—“a robe.”
I waved vaguely toward the peg at the back of the door. Armani eased me down onto the edge of the tub before slowly releasing me, watching all the while to be sure I wouldn’t topple over in his absence.
As soon as he tossed the robe to me, I slid it carefully on, relieved to have even that much covering. The red silk wrap with black Chinese dragons climbing either side only came to mid-thigh, but it was enough. Unfortunately, I couldn’t seem to make my shaking hands work enough to cinch it.
“Why don’t I help you with that?”
Eyes averted to a cartoonish degree, Armani grabbed both ends of the belt and tied it into a hasty knot. Apparently, the sight of my naked body was just too horrible to face. Or he’s being a gentleman just like he said earlier, my inner Pollyanna piped up. Yeah, my inner cynic retorted, like any man with a pulse would willingly pass up a view of a woman in the buff. It shouldn’t have hurt so much. I was used to rejection, albeit a little farther down the road.
Okay, so my inner cynic had rebooted. Time to see if I could get my inner wench back online.
“I know how much that performance must have impressed you,” I breathed, “but you think you can help me to my bed without losing all control?”
“I’ll try to contain myself,” he answered wryly.
He draped one of my arms around his shoulder and helped me creak to my feet and hobble to the edge of my bed.
“Turn around,” I ordered.
Armani rolled his eyes. “It’s not like I’m going to attack you or anything,” he said, turning his back.
“Yeah, I got that loud and clear,” I snapped. Great, a multiple personality free-for-all going on in my head and my inner censor was a no-show.
Unable to face Armani, I reached into the bedside table and snapped out a pair of panties to go under the oversized T-shirt I slept in.
He whirled me around by the shoulder, stunning the bejeebers out of me. “Dammit, what is your problem? Do you want me to attack you?”
I sneered at him, the best defense being a good offense. “Heavens no. Wouldn’t want you to do anything distasteful.”
“Freakin’ women and their damn push-me-pull-you routine—”
“First of all,” I barked, warming to the fight, “I don’t see any other women here, so if you’re going to insult me, at least treat me as an individual. Second, you’re the one with the whole catch me, kiss me, grill me, ignore me shtick.”
Armani’s face was red verging on purple. “So your defense is that we’re both screwed up.”
“I didn’t realize I needed a defense, Detective.”
He threw his hands up in the air. “Fine. This was a lousy idea anyway.”
“So you’ve said. Well, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
Armani stomped off, steam practically streaming out of his ears.
My throat ached. My heart—no, my pride—stung. You’d have thought that would be enough to keep me awake. You’d be wrong.
I went facedown on the mattress, exhaustion having its wicked way with me, and stayed that way. Before unconsciousness rose up to meet me, it flitted through my head that the argument had successfully quashed any further questioning about the events of the day.