Dangerous to Touch

“Could he have been trained that way?”

“I don’t know. Most formally trained dogs are very controlled, very well-behaved. Their owners spend a lot of time caring for them. Are police dogs aggressive, off-duty?”

“No,” he admitted. Even the most vicious attack dogs were the best of canine companions, according to their human cohorts. Examining Sidney’s face, Marc shelved thoughts of the investigation temporarily. It was Saturday afternoon, she rarely had time off and she looked tired. “Would you like to go with my mother and me to the mission?”

She rubbed at her eyes with her fists, an endearing, childlike gesture. “Actually, I’d like to go home and go to bed.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Alone,” she clarified.

He bit back another smile. “I knew what you meant.” Not that he wouldn’t enjoy joining her there-when she was no longer a part of this investigation. Last night, once again, he’d gone too far with her. He’d known his mother had been due back any minute, but he’d gotten lost in the taste of her mouth, the feel of her body, the scent of her skin.

He would have her, Marc told himself. Just not yet.

“If I go home, will you follow me?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She sighed. “Then I’ll feel guilty for keeping you.”

“Don’t. I’d rather work than go to church.”

“And here I thought you were a good Catholic boy,” she teased. “Responsible, God-fearing, dutiful.”

“I said I was responsible, not obedient.” With his mother, he’d always felt more like a parent than a child. She was emotional and reactive, all sense, little sensibility. He’d taken advantage of her fragile nature and ignored her admonishments more often than a good son should. People with weaknesses were easy to exploit, he’d discovered at a young age, and had hardened himself accordingly.

“I’d rather commit sins than atone for them,” he added, his eyes on the curves of her body.

“I don’t have anything to wear,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I’ll take you home first. You can pack an overnight bag.”

She scowled at him. “Presumptuous, aren’t you? You think I’m spending the night with you again?”

“I’d prefer it, but don’t get any hopes up that I’ll ravish you. My mother isn’t leaving until tomorrow morning.”

While Marc waited downstairs, Sidney packed her bag, casting a longing glance out her bedroom window. It was a beautiful day, crystal clear and not too hot, the recent rain having scrubbed away both the smog and the humidity.

She would have loved to spend the afternoon at the beach.

Sighing, she shoved some clothes and toiletries into a green canvas tote, then searched her closet for a dress to wear. She only had one appropriate for the weather, so there wasn’t much to deliberate over.

Her shoe collection was also woefully inadequate. She’d never thought she needed flirty summer sandals until this very moment. Shrugging, she grabbed a pair of simple white Keds. They weren’t new, but they were cleaner than her work sneakers, so she called it good.

“I have to talk to my neighbor about something,” Marc said after they’d arrived at his house. “I’ll be over in a few minutes.”

Sidney glanced at the front door anxiously. “What about your mother?”

“She doesn’t bite.”

Clutching her bag to her chest, she knocked on the front door.

“Just go in,” he said over his shoulder.

She made a shooing motion with her hands, waving him away. He may not care what his mother thought of her, or of him, for that matter, but she did.

Alma Cruz answered the door with a warm smile on her face. “Mija! You don’t have to knock,” she said, ushering her in. “Where is Marcos?”

“Next door.”

“Oh, good. I wanted to apologize for last night. I’m so sorry for embarrassing you.”

“Um,” she murmured, feeling her cheeks heat.

“Are you going to La Mision with us?”

She smiled hesitantly. “If that’s okay.”

“Of course,” she said, her eyes alight with pleasure. “Have you eaten lonche?”

“No.”

“Come, come. I made enchiladas. You like?”

Sidney shrugged, puzzled by her excitement. As the older woman’s hand clasped around her upper arm, the reason for her hospitality became clear: Alma thought she was speaking to her future daughter-in-law.

Apparently Marc didn’t make a habit of introducing his lady friends to his mother. Nor did he have them spend the night on the couch while she was visiting, or invite them to church the next day.

“I think you’ve got the wrong idea,” she began.

“Oh, no,” Alma countered, fixing them both a serving of spicy, aromatic food. “I see how young people are nowadays, hopping from one bed to another. I can tell you’re not that type.” She sat down at Marc’s kitchen table, patting Sidney’s hand. “How long have you and Marcos been dating?”

Sidney stared down at the plate in front of her, wondering if her cheeks were as red as the enchilada sauce. “Not long enough,” she muttered.

Alma put a hand over her heart, sighing as if Sidney had said something romantic. “It doesn’t take long, with that special someone. I fell in love with his father at first sight.”

Her eyes got a misty, far-away look Sidney associated with mourning. “Are you a widow?”

“No, mija,” she said with a trilling laugh. “He was a handsome devil, and I was young and foolish. We never married.”

Of course. Marc had admitted to the circumstances of his birth, had he not? And hinted at more, even less pleasant details, albeit unwittingly. Not sure if condolences were in order, Sidney tasted a bite of the chicken enchilada. “This is delicious,” she said, and meant it. It was hot and flavorful, but not so spicy it burned her tongue. “Do you live nearby?”

“In San Ysidro. I take the bus from there one weekend a month.”

“Don’t you drive?”

“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “Too dangerous.”

“Won’t Marc pick you up?”

“Yes, but I don’t ride in cars, either. So many accidents.” She clucked her tongue in sympathy. “Just last week, in El Chisme, there was an article about abduction. An entire family in a minivan was taken by extra-terrenos.”

“Extra-terrenos?”

“Si,” she nodded. “Space aliens.”

Sidney hid a smile, finding Mrs. Cruz’s eccentricities endearing. It was refreshing to meet another person at least as crazy as she was. Thanking Alma for lunch, Sidney excused herself to Marc’s room to change.

Primping more than usual, she applied a touch of lip gloss and a hint of eye shadow before she donned the navy cotton halter dress. Her lashes were thick and black without mascara, and her cheeks didn’t need any more color.

Stepping back from the mirror, she surveyed her reflection with a frown. The dress was nice enough, showing off her tanned shoulders and cinching in at the waist. It was calf-length and demure, sort of a fifties style, so it didn’t look ridiculous with tennis shoes.

She tapped her lower lip with her forefinger thoughtfully. “My hair,” she breathed, running her fingers through it. She never bothered with bows or frou-frou, and it hadn’t occurred to her to bring any.

“Mrs. Cruz?” she called into the hallway, her voice rising, exposing her nervousness.

“Call me Alma,” she insisted, poking her head out of the guest bedroom.