charming Mexican restaurant on Beach that I had to try. They served the best mojitos in Palm Springs. In fact, she said, she’d had so many of them last time she was there that she’d ended up seducing Faux Dad right there in the backseat of his Caddy in the parking lot. My mother: Queen of Too Much Information.
The second message was from Ramirez. He said he was running late and would meet me at Il Fornaio downstairs at seven. I glanced at the digital clock beside the bed. 6:15. Yikes!
I quickly hopped in the shower, then set to rummaging through my suitcase for something suitable to wear on my very first date with Mr. I-Wanna-Sex-You-Up. The only problem was I’d packed for a father-daughter reunion, not a Vegas seduction. Unless I wanted him to end the evening with a pat on the head and a bedtime story (which, considering my dry spell was already going into extra innings, I so did
I pulled open Dana’s suitcase. Lots of spandex and workout wear. All in size two. I’ve never considered myself a hefty gal, but there was no way I was going to be able to squeeze myself into her itty-bitties. I made a mental note to skip dessert tonight.
I glanced at the digital clock. 6:45. Not enough time to go buy something in the boutique downstairs. That left only one option. I stared at the matching set of leopard-print bags. I quickly pulled one open, hoping to god Marco packed as girly as he shopped.
Bingo.
I found a pink and purple chiffon scarf that was the perfect accent to the low-cut, V-neck cashmere sweater tucked into bag number three. Paired with my black leather skirt and Gucci boots, it presented a pretty decent look even if I did say so myself.
I did a smoky number on my eyes with lots of shadow and mascara. With a little blow-dry and a lot of mousse, I fluffed my hair into a sexy, just-got-out-of-bed look. (Never mind that I had, in fact, just gotten out of bed.) And, just in case, I slipped a couple of Altoids into my purse and put on my Vicky’s Secret black lace thong. If all went well, this would be a first date to remember.
Chapter Eleven
Ramirez was waiting for me at the bar. And I had to admit, as I approached him my stomach did one of those loop-de-loop things like the roller coasters at Six Flags. He was wearing gray slacks, a blazer, and a white button- down shirt open at the neck to show off just a hint of his tan skin beneath. I realized I’d never actually seen Ramirez out of his usual jeans and T-shirt uniform. (If you didn’t count that one half-naked encounter, that is.) Bad Cop cleaned up good. Really good. I was glad I wore the thong.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, planting a little kiss just above my ear. He ran one finger lightly along the arm of my sweater. “Soft.” His mouth quirked up into a wicked half smile. “I like it.”
“Thanks.” I didn’t tell him I’d stolen the outfit from my gay roommate.
With a hand at the small of my back, Ramirez steered me to a table near the back. A handful of other diners filled the cozy, intimate room, holding hands and feeding each other forkfuls of pasta. Soft instrumental music played over the sound system and small, drippy candles at every table completed the air of Northern Italian romance. All in all, the perfect restaurant for a perfect first date. Score one for Bad Cop.
The maitre d’ sat us at a table next to an older couple with silver hair and matching shirts that read “World’s Cutest Couple.” And I had to agree. The man was holding the woman’s hand in both of his and gazing at her like a newlywed. I looked across the table at Ramirez. I wondered if we had any chance of making it that far.
Ramirez caught my gaze. “You look really nice tonight,” he said, his eyes taking on that X-ray vision look as they roamed my body.
I went warm in places I’d forgotten existed.
“Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”
That dimple made an appearance in his left cheek as he pulled out his sexy lopsided grin. He leaned forward, his eyes intent on mine. “What do you say we skip dinner…” His eyes dipped a little lower to my neckline. “…and go right to dessert?”
I gulped. I had a feeling he wasn’t talking about the tiramisu. And I was one second away from agreeing when the waiter appeared at my elbow, asking for our drink order. After a quick perusal of the wine list, Ramirez picked out a bottle of Rutherford Hill merlot. Nice. I snuck a look at the price. Wow. Very nice. Score point number two for Bad Cop.
Once our waiter disappeared into the back, we both picked up our menus.
“Decided what you want yet?” Ramirez asked.
“I’m not sure.” I looked down at the list of entrees. “Everything looks so good. How about you?”
“Oh, I
“So,” he said, folding his cloth napkin onto his lap. “How was your shopping trip today?”
“Shopping?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Yes, shopping. You were supposed to go shopping today, right?”
I bit my lip. Oh yeah. Right. “I, uh, kind of took in some of the local sights instead.” I quickly buried my nose in the menu, pretending I was concentrating really hard on the ingredients of the linguini marinara so he didn’t see the guilty look in my eyes.
No such luck. Ramirez put a hand over the top of my menu, slowly lowering it. “Local sights?”
“Uh huh,” I said in a tiny voice. Frighteningly like the one I used to use when my Irish Catholic grandmother caught me sneaking cookies before dinner.
He narrowed his eyes further. “Such as?”
“Um…Larry’s house and Maurice’s condo.”
“Maurice?”
“Hank’s boyfriend.”
Ramirez muttered a curse. The world’s cutest couple turned and gave us a look.
“What exactly were you doing at Hank’s boyfriend’s house?” Ramirez asked.
“Just, you know…asking a few questions.”
“You don’t give up, do you?” he asked, rubbing at his temple in exasperation.
“You make that sound like it’s a bad thing.”
“It
The cutest couple gasped.
“Keep your voice down,” I whispered.
Ramirez clenched his jaw. He took a couple of deep breaths and I could see him mentally counting to ten. Though instead of getting calmer, I think that vein in his neck was starting to bulge.
Luckily I was saved by the waiter appearing with our overpriced merlot. He uncorked our wine and poured us each a glass. Ramirez downed his in one big gulp.
“Do you realize you just inhaled about twenty dollars worth of wine?” I whispered as the waiter walked away.
Ramirez fixed me with a stare that could stop a charging bull. Then poured another glass. “Okay, Sherlock Fashion,” he said through clenched teeth. “What did Maurice have to say? Spill it.”
So I did. I told him what Maurice had said about the three Manolo-keteers working on the side for Monaldo. I told him about Larry and Hank’s blow-up, Hank’s propensity to carry a gun, Bobbi’s disappearance, and Larry’s skipping town. I was just about to tell him about my dust bunny encounter with Unibrow’s wingtips when the waiter returned to take our order.
Ramirez ordered the steak. Rare. I hemmed and hawed over the linguini marinara or the lasagna with cream sauce, figuring the longer I took the more time Ramirez had to get that bulging vein under control. No such luck. As soon as the waiter left again, Ramirez pinned me with one of his unreadable stares.
“What?” I asked.
He narrowed his eyes. “I’m trying to decide whether to put you on the first plane back to L.A. or take you back
