“Do you have a hair clip? Or a barrette?”
Her eyes lit up. “Yes! I have the perfect thing.” She came out a moment later with a white silk rosette attached to a bobby pin.
Sidney smiled at the whimsical decoration, pushing a lock of hair away from her forehead and pinning the flower in place.
“You look lovely,” she said, squeezing her bare shoulders.
Alma was right. For once, she looked pretty, feminine and composed. “Thanks,” she answered, smoothing a hand over her fluttering stomach and wondering if Marc would be as pleased as his mother by her transformation.
Chapter 12
Marc found Tony at his usual station, parked in front of the TV, playing video games. Taking a seat next to him on the couch, Marc tapped his fingers against his jeans-clad thigh, wondering how to broach the subject.
“You know that joint you gave me?” he asked finally.
Tony’s dark brows drew together. “You actually smoked that?”
“No. I sent it to the lab.”
He shut off the video game, for once giving Marc his undivided attention. “Why?”
“Just a hunch. You said it was knockout stuff. I think the guy I’ve been looking for has been using it to drug dogs before he attacks their owners.”
“You don’t know for sure?”
Marc told him about the dead cat at Sidney’s house and explained her involvement with the case.
“I can’t give you any names,” he said, coming to his feet. “This is my life, man. This is my livelihood.”
“I know your customers, Tony. I see them come and go, and I don’t need you to tell me their names. I want your connect.”
Cursing, he paced the living room. Marc was silent for a moment, giving him time to think it through. “The guy I deal with is not a psycho,” Tony said. “He’s just a man trying to make an honest living, like me.”
Marc didn’t bother to point out that selling controlled substances did not fall under the scope of honest living. “Does he get it from someone else? Sell it to anyone else?”
“I don’t know,” he muttered, not meeting his eyes.
“Don’t lie to me. Please.”
Tony paused, considering how much to reveal. “I think he grows it himself, and I have no idea who else he sells to. He’s not big-time, but he doesn’t mess around with amateurs.”
“I would never tell him you gave me his name.”
“You wouldn’t have to,” he said with a frantic gesture. “Don’t you see? I’m one of his only guys. The only one, maybe. The process of elimination would be swift and deadly.”
“Deadly?”
Tony scowled. “Not that kind of deadly. The ‘I’ll never work in this town again’ kind of deadly.”
Marc wouldn’t mind if Tony sought more reputable employment, but he refused to turn the argument into a moral discussion. In his current state of disgrace, he was in no position to judge. “Women are being murdered, Tony. I can’t pass up a good lead.”
“I’ll tell you his name,” he finally agreed. “But if you talk to him, I’m toast.”
“Maybe I won’t have to,” he murmured, formulating a plan that, once again, involved Sidney.
To her great disappointment, Marc barely noticed Sidney’s appearance. His mind must have been distracted by other things, because he hadn’t said two words to her since returning from his neighbor’s house.
The mission was less than a mile away, so they set off walking, his mother several strides ahead of them. Sidney assumed she was giving them privacy, not that they needed it. Sighing, she stared at Alma’s sturdy calves between the hem of her skirt and the tops of her sensible black shoes. The colorful umbrella she was carrying shielded her head and shoulders from their view.
“Is your neighbor a woman?” Sidney asked.
He snapped out of his reverie. “What? No.” Then a smile curved his lips. “Why?”
“Just wondering,” she said, feeling ridiculous and pathetic.
To her surprise, he took her hand in his. “I’m not seeing anyone else.”
The gesture was just a simple touch, an easy show of affection, and yet it meant more to her than any of his sexual advances. He knew it, too, judging by his guarded expression.
She looked down at his hand, strong and dark in her own. “Good,” she said, not interested in playing coy with him.
He laughed at her possessiveness. “I like your dress.”
“Thanks.” Feeling her cheeks turn pink, she resisted the urge to fidget with the silly flower in her hair.
“I was just thinking about the case,” he added, offering an excuse for his inattention.
She nodded in understanding. Any woman he became involved with would take a back seat to his job. Then she scolded herself for assuming she held any place in his life, let alone distant second.
Sidney had lived in Oceanside for five years, and was born and raised in neighboring Bonsall, but she’d never visited the San Luis Rey Mission. It was a tourist attraction, a historical site and a piece of local tradition. More quaint than grand, it boasted lush gardens and bubbling fountains, Spanish-style architecture, and an old graveyard.
Afternoon mass was held in a small rectangular chapel with polished pews and a high, domed ceiling. In an alcove at the entrance, there was a small porcelain bowl. Alma wet her fingertips with the holy water and made the sign of the cross.
Sidney paused, not sure if she should follow suit. Taking the matter into his own hands, Marc dipped two fingers into the bowl.
As he touched her forehead, the valley between her breasts, and each bare shoulder, Sidney was intensely aware of the damp traces his fingertips made on her skin, like the remnants of a butterfly kiss. In a response that was far from spiritual, her nipples contracted, pushing against the bodice of her dress.
Watching her intently, he repeated the gesture on himself then urged her toward the back of the church, away from his mother. She slipped into the last row, expecting him to follow.
At the base of the pew, he knelt, making the sign of the cross again before entering.
Sidney blushed, embarrassed by her ignorance about his faith and her own inappropriate reaction to his touch. Only a depraved person would get turned on in church.
Oblivious to her inner struggle, he picked up a prayer book and began thumbing through it. Perhaps because she was striving to think of anything but sex, it was foremost on her mind. His dark hands looked positively sinful against the white pages. They were long-fingered and beautiful, much larger and more forceful than her own.
She looked away, but she could feel his hand in hers, strong and warm. Worse, she could feel the blunt tips of his fingers, brushing the naked spot between her breasts, and remembered just how intimately he’d touched her the night before.
Sneaking another peak at his hands, she wondered how she could find the least private part of his body so arousing, and when she’d become such a wanton.
“Get on your knees,” he said.
Her eyes flew to his face. “What?”
“You have to kneel for this part.” He pointed to a cushioned bar at their feet.
“Oh.” Her entire body tingling with awareness, she knelt beside him, trying to deny the obvious sexual parallels.
For an indeterminable length of time, the ups and downs of the ceremony kept her physically occupied, if not mentally. Catholics apparently spent a lot of time on their knees. The sermon was in Spanish, and although Marc knew all of the proper responses, his voice sounded wickedly seductive, as if he were whispering dirty things in her
