Spying in High Heels

explanations he might try to conjure up, I realized I hated Richard. There was no excuse for doing this to me. Look at me! I was a mess. I was a bundle of nerves, anxiety, and I’d just possibly poisoned my maybe child. Oh God. I was an awful, awful person. Nothing in the world could make this day worse.

And then my doorbell rang.

I lay there, deciding if I even remembered how to move my limbs. After the third ring, I finally managed a vertical position and staggered to the door. I looked through the peephole and think I actually gasped out loud.

“I know you’re in there, I can see your light under the door. Open up.”

I bit my lip. I could let him in. But, see, here’s the thing: I’ve been known to be a little over friendly when I’ve been drinking. Which is why I don’t often indulge. In fact, I have a pitcher of margaritas to blame for my second date sleepover with Richard. Knowing I was past my common sense limit, coupled with, as Mom would say, the unholy thoughts I’d been having earlier at Beefcakes, I wasn’t sure it was really a good idea to let him in.

He pounded on the door again. “I can hear you breathing. Open the door.”

Then again, it’s never a good idea to disobey a cop.

I unhooked the latch, turned the deadbolt, and opened the door to find myself face to face with Ramirez. Sexy day-old stubble and all.

Chapter Fourteen

I blinked. God he looked good. He still didn’t look like he’d slept much, but the five o’clock shadow had grown into this sexy George Clooney thing that made his jaw look like it belonged in a Schick commercial. He was dressed in his usual uniform of butt hugging jeans and a black T-shirt. His eyes were hooded and dark, his hair just a little mussed. This was exactly how I imagined he’d look after a really long night of really excellent sex.

Down girl. See what I mean about alcohol and me?

“Where have you been?” he asked. “Didn’t you get my messages?”

I turned around. Sure enough the light on my machine was blinking like mad.

“No, I didn’t. I just got in. Why?”

“Can I come in?”

I bit my lip, hesitating. The rational voice in my head said, tell him to leave. Close the door. Do not talk to sexy cops when you’re drunk. Only the Beefcakes patron in me said, yes, please, come in. Take your clothes off. Hop into my bed.

And considering the amount of vodka Beefcakes Girl had consumed, she was getting really loud. So loud she was overpowering the rational voice.

“Sure.” I stood back to allow him entry.

He stepped into the room. And I swear my eyes went straight to his leather thong region. Boxers or briefs? I just couldn’t tell.

“So,” I said, clearing my throat loudly. “What did you want?”

“I just wanted to let you know we ran an analysis on the hairs found in the motel room. They weren’t yours.”

“I told you so.” Ugh. I sounded five. “I mean, I’m glad you checked. I’m glad we cleared that up.”

Ramirez looked at me kind of funny, but didn’t comment. “Yeah, well I just wanted to let you know you’re officially not a suspect.”

“Well, duh,” I smacked my head with the palm of my hand. “I don’t even own a leopard thong.”

Ramirez raised one eyebrow. “Leopard thong?”

“And I so don’t do nooners. Well, not unless it’s a really special occasion. Or the guy’s really hot. But I always leave with my panties on.”

Ramirez’s eyes creased at the corners, twinkling with that Big Bad Wolf look again. “Good to know.”

I took a deep breath. Yes, I was aware I sounded frighteningly like Bunny Hoffenmeyer and I wasn’t making a whole lot of sense. But somehow the connection between my brain and my mouth seemed to have shorted out. I grabbed onto the kitchen counter for support, as the room was starting to look like a Tilt-awhirl again.

“What I mean to say is, I’m glad I didn’t kill him. I mean, I’m glad you know I didn’t kill him. I know I didn’t kill him. But now you know that I know I didn’t kill him. Even though he’s dead.”

The corner of Ramirez’s mouth quivered. “Uh huh.”

“I know that you know that I know that I didn’t kill him.” I paused. Hmmm… that didn’t sound quite right. Let me try again. “I mean, I wasn’t there. No, I was there, but not there there, as in not in his room, there.” There. That sounded better. Kind of.

The quiver turned into a full fledged grin. “Are you drunk?”

“No!” I rolled my eyes and did my best as-if face. “I’m so not drunk. I’m the opposite of drunk. I’m…” I paused trying to come up with the word. “… the other thing.”

“Sober?” Ramirez supplied, still grinning.

“Right. That’s me. Sober Maddie.” It might have been more convincing if my hand hadn’t slipped off the counter just then, throwing me so off balance I tripped on one of my heels and nearly fell.

Nearly, because Ramirez reached out with quick cop-like reflexes and caught me in his arms. Strong arms. I put my hands up to balance and came up against a chest like a brick wall. I felt his heart beating beneath his six-day- a-week-at-the-gym muscles. I think I sighed.

“You okay?” His face was inches from mine. His eyes still twinkling with amusement.

“Uh huh,” I managed. Even though my limbs felt like Jell-o and I could swear visions of Damien’s package were swimming through my head. I suddenly had a burning desire to know for sure whether Ramirez was a boxers or briefs guy.

“Love the outfit,” he said, still holding me around the waist. His eyes dipped down to my Librarian wear.

“You’re mocking me again aren’t you?”

“Just a little.”

“It went over big at the porn studio too.”

Ramirez’s eyebrow shot up again. “Porn Studio?” His grin widened, showing off a row of white teeth. The better to eat you right up with my dear.

“See, I knew there was a little bad girl in you.” His voice was low and deep in a way that made me warm in all the right places.

I was still pressed against his chest and his hooded eyes looked wide awake now, intent on me. Making me think serious bad girl thoughts. Thoughts of bad cops in boxers.

Or better yet, nothing at all.

Try as I might to reign in Beefcakes Girl, her eyes strayed downward. Past his brick wall chest, beyond six-pack territory, until they zeroed in on that denim covered package.

“Are you staring at my crotch?”

At least I had the decency to blush. At least, I think it was a blush. Or maybe just one of Mom’s hot flashes at the totally X-rated thoughts racing through my mind.

“I was just wondering if you’re a boxers or briefs guy.” Did I say that out loud? Oh lord, I must be really drunk.

Before I had time to take back my Sluts-R-Us statement, Ramirez tightened his grip on my waist, pulling my body flush with his.

I think I had an on-the-spot orgasm.

His head dipped down, his lips grazing my ear. “Briefs,” he whispered.

And then he kissed me.

And not one of those nippy, soft, kissy things. This was a kiss. A serious lust- inspiring, picturing-you-naked-all-day, you’re-so-going-to-remember-the-sex-no-matter-how-many-Virgin-Marys- you-accidentally-drank kind of kiss. One that left no question in my mind whether Ramirez was a Damien or a Richard beneath all those clothes. I knew for a fact that Richards didn’t kiss like this. He was a Damien through and through.